I sit in a little room, one wall of which is now completely lined with books. It is the first time I have had the leisure of working with anything like a collection of books. There are probably no more than 500 in all, but for the most part they represent my own choice. It is the first time, since I began my writing career, that I am surrounded with a goodly number of the books I have always longed to possess. The fact, however, that in the past I did most of my work without the aid of a library I look upon as an advantage rather than a disadvantage.One of the first things I associate with the reading of books is the struggle I waged to obtain them. Not to own them, mind you, but to lay hands on them. From the moment the passion took hold of me I encountered nothing but obstacles. The books I wanted, at the public library, were always out. And of course I never had the money to buy them. To get permission from the library in my neighborhood – I was 18 or 19 years of age –to borrow such a “demoralizing” work as The Confession of a Fool, by Strindberg, was just impossible.In those days the books which young people were prohibited from reading were decorated with stars –one, two or three –according to the degree of immorality attributed to them. I suspect this procedure still obtains. I hope so, for I know of
nothing better calculated to whet one’s appetite than this stupid sort of classification and prohibition.What makes a book live? How often this question arises! The answer, in my opinion, is simple. A book lives through the passionate recommendation of one reader to another. Nothing can throttle this basic impulse in the human being. Despite the views of cynics and misanthropes, it is my belief that men will always strive to share their deepest experiences.Books are one of the few things men cherish deeply. And the better the man the more easily will he part with his most cherished possessions. A book lying idle on a shelf is wasted ammunition. Like money, books must be kept in constant circulation. Lend and borrow to the maximum –of both books and money! But especially books, for books represent infinitely more than money. A book is not only a friend, it makes friends for you. When you have possessed a book with mind and spirit, you are enriched. But when you pass it on you are enriched threefold.Here an irrepressible impulse seizes me to offer a piece of gratuitous advice. It is this: Read as little as possible, not as much as possible! Oh, do not doubt that I have envied those who have drowned in books. I, too, would secretly like to wade through all those books I have so long toyed with in my mind. But I know it is not important. I
know now that I did not need to read even a tenth of what I have read. The most difficult thing in life is to learn to do only what is strictly advantageous to one’s welfare, strictly vital.There is an excellent way to test this precious bit of advice I have not given rashly. When you stumble upon a book you would like to read, or think you ought to read, leave it alone for a few days. But think about it as intensely as you can. Let the title and the author’s name revolve in your mind. Think what you yourself might have written had the opportunity been yours. Ask yourself earnestly if it be absolutely necessary to add this work to your store of knowledge or your fund of enjoyment.Try to imagine what it would mean to forego this extra pleasure or enlightenment. Then, if you find you must read the book, observe with what extraordinary acumen you tackle it. Observe, too, that however stimulating it may be, very little of the book is really new to you. If you are honest with yourself you will discover that your stature has increased from the mere effort of resisting your impulses.Indubitably the vast majority of books overlap one another. Few indeed are those which give the impression of originality, either in style or in content. Rare are the unique books – less than 50, perhaps, out of the whole storehouse of literature. In one of his recent
autobiographical novels, BlaiseCendrars points out that Rémy de Gourmont, because of his knowledge and awareness of this repetitive quality in books, was able to select and read all that is worthwhile in the entire realm of literature. Cendrars himself –who would suspect it? – is a prodigious reader. He reads most authors in their original tongue.Not only that, but when he likes an author he reads every last book the man has written, as well as his letters and all the books that have been written about him. In our day his case is almost unparalleled, I imagine. For, not only has he read widely and deeply, but he has himself written a great many books. All on the side, as it were. For, if he is anything, Cendrars, he is a man of action, an adventurer and explorer, a man who has known how to “waste” h is time royally. He is, in a sense, the Julius Caesar of literature.