The page of divine scripture is open for you to read, and the wide world is open for you to see. Only the literate can read the books, but even the illiterate can read the book of the world.
[tr. Boulding (2000)]
 
May the sacred page be a book for you, so that you may hear, may the globe of the earth be a book for you, so that you may see; in these books only those who know letters read these things; in the whole world, even the fool can read.
[tr. Mews (2004)]
 
[Liber tibi sit pagina diuina, ut haec audias; liber tibi sit orbis terrarum, ut haec uideas. in istis codicibus non ea legunt, nisi qui litteras nouerunt; in toto mundo legat et idiota.]

The world is a great book, and none study this book so much as a traveler. They that never stir from their home read only one page of this book.
[ed. Feltham, The English Enchiridion (1799), paraphrasing]

The world is a great book, of which they that never stir from home read only a page.
[ed. Fiedling, Select Proverbs of All Nations (1824)]

The universe is a sort of book, whose first page one has read when one has seen only one's own country.
 
[L'Univers est une espece de livre dont on n'a lû que la prémiére page, quand on n'a vû que son Païs.]

• Augustine: The world is a book? | They didn't say it
• Source of supposed Augustine quote? - Hippo | Ask MetaFilter
• Source needed: "The world is a book..." - Factual Questions - Straight Dope Message Board

The Predominant Passion or rather Fury of most of the French is, to be thought Wits; and the Predominant passion of those who would be thought Wits, is to write Books.
And yet there is nothing so ill-contrived.
[tr. Ozell (1736 ed.), No. 64]

The passion of most of the French is to be taken for wits, and the passion of thole who would be thought wits, is to write books. And yet there is nothing so badly imagined.
[tr. Floyd (1762)]

The passion of nearly every Frenchman, is to pass for a wit; and the passion of those who wish to be thought wits, is to write books.
There never was such an erroneous idea.
[tr. Davidson (1891)]

The passion of most Frenchmen is to be thought wits ; and the passion of those who wish to be thought wits is to write books.
It is impossible to imagine a more unfortunate mania.
[tr. Betts (1897)]

The passion of most of the French is to be thought witty, and the passion of those who wish to be considered wits is to write books.
A worse misconception cannot be imagined.
[tr. Healy (1964)]

Most Frenchmen are desperately eager to be thought witty and, of those who seek to be witty, most are desperately eager to write a book.
No plan, however, could be less well conceived.
[tr. Mauldon (2008), No. 64]

Then take the book I now address,
Though small its size, its merit less,
'Tis all thy friend can give;
And let me, guardian Muse, implore
That when at least one age is o'er,
This volume yet may live.
[tr. Lamb (1821), st. 3]

Then take this little book, whae'er
Of good or bad it store;
And grant, oh guardian Muse, that it
May keep the flavour of its wit
A century or more.
[tr. T. Martin (1861), st. 3]

Wherefore accept my tiny leaves, I pray,
Such as they are, -- and, Patron Goddess, give
This boon: that still perennial they may live
After a century has roll'd away.
[tr. Cranstoun (1867)]

Therefore welcome it, yours the little outcast,
This slight volume. O yet, supreme awarder,
Virgin, save it in ages on for ever.
[tr. Ellis (1871), st. 4]

So take, whate'er its worth may be,
My Book, -- but, Lady and Queen of Song,
This one gift I crave of thee,
That it may live for ages long!
[tr. Lang (1888)]

Then take thee whatso in this booklet be,
Such as it is, whereto O Patron Maid
To live down Ages lend thou lasting aid!
[tr. Burton (1893)]

Therefore take this booklet, such as it is, and, O Virgin Patroness, may it outlive generations more than one.
[tr. Smithers (1894)]

So take and keep for your own this little book, such as it is, and whatever it is worth; and may it, O Virgin my patroness, live and last for more than one century.
[tr. Warre Cornish (1904)]

Accept, therefore, this little book and all that it contains, such as it is; and, O guardian maiden, ordain that it shall outlive this generation.
[tr. Stuttaford (1912)]

So take my small book -- if it meet with your favor,
The passing of years cannot dull its sweet savor.
[tr. Stewart (1915)]

Do thou then accept this booklet, I pray;
And grant, Virgin muse, that, if such be its worth,
It outlive the one age that has given it birth.
[tr. Symons-Jeune (1923)]

Therefore the book how slight soe'er,
Be yours: and thou, kind Muse, prolong
More than one age my timeless song.
[tr. MacNaghten (1925)]

Wherefore, dear friend, this humble volume take,
With all its imperfections, for my sake;
Which with Minerva's favour yet may last
When you and I into the dust have passed.
[tr. Wright (1926)]

Then, take this little book
for what it is, my friend.
Patroness and Muse,
keep these poems green for
a day or so beyond a hundred years.
O Virgin!
[tr. Gregory (1931)]

And so it's yours; I hand this slim book over,
such as it is -- for the sake of its patron
may it survive a century or better.
[tr. C. Martin (1979)]

Then take this little book for your own: whatever
it is, and is worth: virgin Muse, patroness,
let it last, for more lives than one.
[tr. Kline (2001)]

For that reason have for yourself whatever this little book is,
and whatever you like, oh patron maiden,
let it last a long time, for more than one generation!
[tr. Ozlem (2003)]

So take this little booklet, this mere trifle,
whatever it may be worth -- and Patron Virgin,
let it outlast at least one generation!
[tr. Green (2005)]

Book of mine for what it’s worth; whatever;
And oh, patroness Virgin, grant that it shall
Live and survive beyond the century.
[tr. Ferry (2012)]

For this reason have for yourself whatever this is of a little book,
Such as it is; O virgin patron,
That it may endure for more than one age.
[tr. Wikibooks (2017)]

So keep for yourself this little book of some sort.
May it last, O generous goddess!,
more than one long age.
[tr. Wikisource (2018)]

With pumice dry just polish'd fine,
To whom present this book of mine;
This little volume smart, and new? --
Cornelius, I will give it you:
For then you oft were wont to say
Some trifling merit had my lay.
[tr. Nott (1795)]

My little volume is complete,
With all the care and polish neat
That makes it fair to see:
To whom shall I then, to whose praise,
Inscribe my lively, graceful lays?
Cornelius, friend, to thee.
[tr. Lamb (1821)]

My little volume is complete,
And with the pumice made as neat
As tome need wish to be;
And now what patron shall I choose
For thee gay sallies of my muse?
Cornelius, whom but thee?
For though they are but trifles, thou
Some value didst to them allow.
[tr. T. Martin (1861), st. 1-2]

To what dear friend, say, shall I dedicate
My smart new book, just trimm'd with pumice dry?
To thee, Cornelius -- for, in years gone by,
Thou was accustom'd my light lays to rate
As something more than trifles.
[tr. Cranstoun (1867)]

My little book, that's neat and new,
Fresh polished with dry pumice stone,
To whom, Cornelius, but to you,
Shall this be sent, for you alone --
(Who used to praise my lines, my own) ....
[tr. Lang (1888)]

To thee (Cornelius!); for wast ever fain
To deem my trifles somewhat boon contain.
[tr. Burton (1893)]

To whom inscribe my charming new book -- just out and with ashen pumice polished? Cornelius, to you! for you used to deem my triflings of account.
[tr. Smithers (1894)]

To whom am I to present my pretty new book, freshly smoothed off with dry pumice stone? To you, Cornelius: for you used to think that my trifles were worth something, long ago.
[tr. Warre Cornish (1904)]

To whom shall I offer this book, young and sprightly,
Neat, polished, wide-margined, and finished politely?
To you, my Cornelius ....
[tr. Stewart (1915)]

To whom shall I offer my new little book
Looking as polished as parchment can look?
Cornelius, to thee, for 'twa thou who didst prize
My trifles as something e'en then in thine eyes.
[tr. Symons-Jeune (1923)]

To whom this dainty booklet polished new
With pumice stone? Cornelius, to you.
For you were wont my versicles to praise
As things of value in those bygone days.
[tr. Wright (1926), ch. 3]

Who shall receive my new-born book,
my poems, elegant and shy,
neatly dressed and polished?
You, Cornelius,
shall by my single patron,
for, long ago, you praised my slender lines and stanzas.
[tr. Gregory (1931)]

Whom do I give my neat little volume
slicked dry and made fashionable with pumice?
Cornelius, to you: remindful that you
used to dwell on my scantlings as something great.
[tr. Zukofsky (1959)]

To whom will I give this sophisticated,
abrasively accomplished new collection?
To you, Cornelius! You had the habit
of making much of my poetic little.
[tr. C. Martin (1979)]

To whom do I send this fresh little book
of wit, just polished off with dry pumice?
To you, Cornelius: since you were accustomed
to consider my trifles worth something
even then.
[tr. Kline (2001)]

To whom do I dedicate this charming slim volume,
just now polished with dry pumice stone?
For you Cornelius, for you were accustomed to think
that my scribblings were something.
[tr. Ozlem (2003)]

Who's the dedicatee of my new witty
booklet, all fresh-polished with abrasive?
You, Cornelius: for you always used to
feel my trivia possessed some substance.
[tr. Green (2005)]

To whom to give this charming little book
dryly polished with a pumice stone?
To you, Cornelius: you used to think
my trivial little scribbles worth a look.
[Source (2011)]

Who is it I should give my little book to,
So pretty in its pumice-polished covers?
Cornelius, I'll give my book to you:
Because you used to think my nothings somethings.
[tr. Ferry (2012)]

To whom do I give this pleasing new little book,
Just now smoothed with dry pumice?
To you, Cornelius: For you were accustomed
To consider my trifles to be something.
[tr. Wikibooks (2017)]

To whom do I give this elegant new booklet,
polished just now with dry pumice?
To you, Cornelius! Since you always
thought my doggerel was worth something.
[tr. Wikisource (2018)]

Together we, for pleasure, one day read
How strictly Lancelot was bound by love;
We, then alone, without suspicion were:
T'admire each other, often from the book
Our eyes were ta'en, and oft our colour chang'd;
That was the point of time which conqurer'd us,
When, reading that her captivating smile
Was by the Lover the adored kiss'd;
This, my Companion, always with me seen,
Fearful, and trembling, also kiss'd my mouth.
The Writer, Galeotto, nam;d the Book.
But from that day we never read in't more.
[tr. Rogers (1782), l. 113ff]

One day (a day I ever must deplore!)
The gentle youth, to spend a vacant hour,
To me the soft seducing story read,
Of Launcelot and fair Geneura's love,
While fascinating all the quiet grove
Fallacious Peace her snares around us spread.
Too much I found th' insidious volume charm,
And Paulo's mantling blushes rising warm;
Still as he read the guilty secret told:
Soon from the line his eyes began to stray;
Soon did my yielding looks my heart betray,
Nor needed words our wishes to unfold.
Eager to realize the story'd bless,
Trembling he snatch'd the half resented kiss,
To ill soon lesson'd by the pandar-page!
Vile pandar-page! it smooth'd the paths of shame.
[tr. Boyd (1802), st. 24-26]

One day
For our delight we read of Lancelot,
How him love thrall’d. Alone we were, and no
Suspicion near us. Ofttimes by that reading
Our eyes were drawn together, and the hue
Fled from our alter’d cheek. But at one point
Alone we fell. When of that smile we read,
The wished smile, rapturously kiss’d
By one so deep in love, then he, who ne’er
From me shall separate, at once my lips
All trembling kiss’d. The book and writer both
Were love’s purveyors. In its leaves that day
We read no more.
[tr. Cary (1814)]

'Twas on a day when we for pastime read
Of Lancelot, whom love ensnared to ruin:
We were alone, nor knew suspicious dread.
That lesson oft, the conscious look renewing,
Held us suspense, and turned our cheeks to white;
But one sole moment wrought for our undoing:
When of the kiss we read, from smile so bright.
So coveted, that such true-lover bore.
He, from my side who ne'er may disunite,
Kissed me upon the mouth, trembling all o'er.
The broker of our Vows, it was the lay,
And he who wrote -- that day we read no more.
[tr. Dayman (1843)]

One day, for pastime, wwe read of Lancelot, how love restrained him; we were alone, and without all suspicion.
Several times that reading urged our eyes to meet, and changed the color of our faces; but one moment alone it was that overcame us.
When we read how the fond smile was kissed by such a lover, he, who shall never be divided from me,
kissed my mouth all trembling: the book, and he who wrote it, was a Galeotto; that day we read in it no farther.
[tr. Carlyle (1849)]

We were reading one day, for our delight,
In Lancilotto, bound in love so strict.
We were alone, and neither could suspect
Suspended were our eyes, and more than once,
In reading, and the visage colorless;
One point it was lone that conquered us.
When we read first of that -- the longed-for smile
At being kissed by one who loved so well;
Galeotti was the book -- he wrote it:
That Day we read not there any farther.
[tr. Bannerman (1850)]

One day we read, to pass a pleasant time,
How Lancelot was bound in chains of love;
Alone we were and no suspicion knew.
often we sigh'd; and as we read our eyes
Each other sought, the color fled our cheeks;
But we were vanquish'd by one point alone.
When we had read how the smile long desir'd
Was kiss'd by him who lov'd with such deep love,
This one, from me no more to be apart,
Trembling all over, kiss'd me on the mouth.
Galeotto was the writer and the book;
In it we read no further on that day.
[tr. Johnston (1867)]

One day we reading were for our delight
⁠Of Launcelot, how Love did him enthrall.
⁠Alone we were and without any fear.
Full many a time our eyes together drew
⁠That reading, and drove the color from our faces;
⁠But one point only was it that o'ercame us.
Whenas we read of the much longed-for smile
⁠Being by such a noble lover kissed,
⁠This one, who ne'er from me shall be divided,
Kissed me upon the mouth all palpitating.
⁠Galeotto was the book and he who wrote it.
⁠That day no farther did we read therein.
[tr. Longfellow (1867)]

We were reading one day, for delight, of Lancelot, how Love constrained him; alone were we, and without any suspicion. Many times did that reading impel our eyes, and change the hue of our visages; but one point only was it that overcame us. When we read that the wished-for smile was kissed by such a lover, this one who never from me shall be parted kissed me on the mouth all trembling. A Gallehault was the book, and he who wrote it. That day we read no further in it.
[tr. Butler (1885)]

We read one day for pleasure, in the song
Of Launcelot, how Love him captive made;
We were alone without one thought of wrong.
Many and many a time our eyes delayed
The reading, and our faces paled apart;
One point alone it was that us betrayed.
In reading of that worshipt smile o' the heart,
Kissed by such lover on her lips' red core.
This one, who never more from me must part,
Kissed me upon the mouth, trembling all o'er:
For us our Galeotto was that book;
That day we did not read it any more.
[tr. Minchin (1885)]

We were reading one day, for delight, of Lancelot, how love constrained him. We were alone and without any suspicion. Many times that reading made us lift our eyes, and took the color from our faces, but only one point was that which overcame us. When we read of the longed-for smile being kissed by such a lover, this one, who never from me shall be divided, kissed my mouth all trembling. Galahaut was the book, and he who wrote it. That day we read in it no farther.
[tr. Norton (1892)]

We read one day, to while the hour, of Lancelot, how love enthralled him: we were alone, with never a thought of harm. And oft and oft that reading brought our eyes together and drave the colour to our cheeks ; but one point, only one, it was that overcame us. When that we came to read of how the smiling lips he loved were kissed by lover such as he, he that no more shall e'er be parted from me, kissed my mouth trembling through. Our Galahad was the book and he that penned it: that day we read in it no more.
[tr. Sullivan (1893)]

One day, by way of pastime, we were reading
Of Lancelot, how love in fetters held him:
We were alone, and without thought of danger.
Full often did that reading bring together
Our glances, and made colourless our visage;
But just one point was that which overcame us:
When as we read how that the smile much longed for
Was kissed by one so passionately loving,
He who from me shall never be divided
Kissed me upon the mouth, all, all a-quiver: --
A Galehalt was the book and he who wrote it: --
Upon that day we read therein no further.
[tr. Griffith (1908)]

We read one day for pastime of Lancelot, how love constrained him. We were alone and had no misgiving. Many times that reading drew our eyes together and changed the color in our faces, but one point alone it was that mastered us; when we read that the longed-fro smile was kissed by so great a lover, he who never shall be parted from me, all trembling, kissed my mouth. A Galeotto was the book and he that wrote it; that day we read in it no farther.
[tr. Sinclair (1939)]

One day we read for pastime how in thrall
Lord Lancelot lay to love, who loved the Queen;
We were alone -- we thought no harm at all.
As we read on, our eyes met now and then,
And to our cheeks the changing color started,
But just one moment overcame us -- when
We read of the smile, desired of lips long-thwarted,
Such smile, by such a lover kissed away,
He that may never more from me be parted
Trembling all over, kissed my mouth. I say
The book was Galleot, Galleot the complying
Ribald who wrote; we read no more that day.
[tr. Sayers (1949)]

One day for dalliance we read the rhyme
of Lancelot, how love had mastered him.
We were alone with innocence and dim time.
Pause after pause that high old story drew
our eyes together while we blushed and paled;
but it was one soft passage overthrew
our caution and our hearts. For when we read
how her fond smile was kissed by such a lover,
he who is one with me alive and dead
breathed on my lips the tremor of his kiss.
That book, and he who wrote it, was a pander.
That day we read no further.
[tr. Ciardi (1954), l. 124ff]

One day, for pastime, we reqd of Lancelot, how love constrained him; we were alone, suspecting nothing. Several times that reading urged our eyes to meet and too the color from our faces, but one moment alone it was that overcame us. When we read how the longed-for smile was kissed by so great a lover, this one, who never shll be parted from me, kissed my mouth all trembling. A Gallehault was the book and he who wrote it; that day we read no farther in it.
[tr. Singleton (1970)]

One day we read, to pass the time away,
of Lancelot, how he had fallen in love;
we were alone, innocent of suspicion.
Time and again our eyes were brought together
by the book we read; our faces flushed and paled.
To the moment of one line alone we yielded:
it was when we read about those longed-for lips
now being kissed by such a famous lover,
that this one (who shall never leave my side)
then kissed my mouth, and trembled as he did.
The book and its author was our galehot!
That day we read no further.
[tr. Musa (1971)]

One day, to pass the time away, we read
of Lancelot -- how love had overcome him.
We were alone, and we suspected nothing.
And time and time again that reading led
our eyes to meet, and made our faces pale,
and yet one point alone defeated us.
When we had read how the desired smile
was kissed by one who was so true a lover,
this one, who never shall be parted from me,
while all his body trembled, kissed my mouth.
A Gallehault indeed, that book and he
who wrote it, too; that day we read no more.
[tr. Mandelbaum (1980)]

One day, when we were reading, for distraction,
How Lancelot was overcome by love --
We were alone, without any suspicion;
Several times, what we were reading forced
Our eyes to meet, and then we changed color:
But one page only was more than we could bear.
When we read how that smile, so much desired,
Was kissed by such a lover, in the book,
He, who will never be divided from me,
Kissed my mouth, he was trembling as he did so;
The book, the writer played the part of Galahalt:
That day we got no further with our reading.
[tr. Sisson (1981)]

One day, for pleasure,
We read of Lancelot, by love constrained:
Alone, suspecting nothing, at our leisure.
Sometimes at what we read our glances joined,
Looking from the book each to the other's eyes,
And then the color in our faces drained.
But one particular moment alone it was
Defeated us: the longed-for smile, it said,
Was kissed by that most noble lover: at this,
This one, who now will never leave my side,
Kissed my mouth, trembling. A Galeotto, that book!
And so was he who wrote it; that day we read
No further.
[tr. Pinsky (1994), l. 112ff]

We were reading one day, for pleasure, of Lancelot, how Love beset him; we were alone and without any suspicion.
Many times that reading drove our eyes together and turned our faces pale; but one point alone was the one that overpowered us.
When we read that the yearned-for smile was kissed by so great a lover, he, who will never be separated from me,
kissed my mouth all trembling. Galeotto was the book and he who wrote it: that day we read there no further.
[tr. Durling (1996)]

We read, one day, to our delight, of Lancelot and how love constrained him: we were alone and without suspicion. Often those words urged our eyes to meet, and coloured our cheeks, but it was a single moment that undid us. When we read how that lover kissed the beloved smile, he who will never be separated from me, kissed my mouth all trembling. That book was a Galeotto, a pandar, and he who wrote it: that day we read no more.
[tr. Kline (2002)]

One day, to pass the time, we read of
Lancelot, who loved illicitly.
Just the two of us; we had not thought of what, as yet, was not.
From time to time that reading urged our eyes to meet.
and made our faces flush and pale,
but one point in the story changed our lives;
for when we read of how the longed-for smile
was kissed by such a noble knight,
the one who for eternity is by my side all trembling
kissed my trembling mouth.
The man who wrote this was a Galeotto; so was the book.
That day the rest of it remained unscanned.
[tr. Carson (2002)]

One day we read together for pure joy
how Lancelot was taken in Love's palm.
We were alone. We knew no suspicion.
Time after time, the words we read would lift
our eyes and drawn all color from our faces.
A single point, however, vanquished us.
For when at last we read the longed-for smile
of Guinevere -- at last her lover kissed --
he, who from me will never now depart,
touched his kiss, trembling to my open mouth.
This book was Galehault -- pander-penned, the pimp!
That day we read no further down those lines.
[tr. Kirkpatrick (2006)]

One day, to pass the time in pleasure,
we read of Lancelot, how love enthralled him.
We were alone, without the least misgiving.
More than once that reading made our eyes meet
and drained the color from our faces.
Still, it was a single instant overcame us:
When we read how the longed-for smile
was kissed by so renowned a lover, this man,
who never shall be parted from me,
all trembling, kissed me on my mouth.
A Galeotto was the book and he that wrote it.
That day we read in it no further.
[tr. Hollander/Hollander (2007)]

One day we read the story of Lancelot
And how his love attacked and held him tight.
We were alone and unaware of our thoughts.
More than once the story forced our eyes
To meet, and as we looked our faces turned pale,
But just one single moment hung and decided
Us. We read how a smile we longed for stayed
On her lips until the greatest of lovers kissed them,
And then this man, who cannot be taken away
From me, kissed my mouth, his body trembling.
A famous go-between had written that tale.
That day, our time for reading suddenly ended.
[tr. Raffel (2010)]

One day, to amuse ourselves, we were reading
The tales of love-struck Lancelot; we were all alone,
And naively unaware of what could happen.
More than once, while reading, we looked up
And saw the other looking back. We'd blush, then pale,
Then look down again. Until a moment did us in.
We were reading about the longed-for kiss
The great lover gives his Guinevere, when that one
From whom I'll now never be parted,
Trembling, kissed my lips.
That author and his book played the part
Of Gallehault. We read no more that day.
[tr. Bang (2012)]

Reading together one day for delight
Or Lancelot, caught up in Love's sweet snare,
We were alone, with no thought of what might
Occur to us, although we stopped to stare
Sometimes at what we read, and even paled.
But then the moment came we turned a page
And all our powers of resistance failed:
When we read of that great knight in a rage
To kiss the smile he so desired. Paolo,
This one so quiet now, made my mouth still --
Which, loosened by those words, had trembled so --
With his mouth. And right then we lost the will --
For Love can will will's loss, as well you know --
To read on. But let that man take a bow
Who wrote the book we called our Galahad,
The reason nothing can divide us now.
[tr. James (2013), l. 149ff]

Lest, in air, the mere lightness my distics should toss;
I'd rather sing δ̕ ἀπαμειθόμενος.
[tr. Elphinston (1782), 12.216]

That the care which I have bestowed upon what I have published may not come to nothing through the smallness of my volumes, let me rather fill up my verses with Τὸν δ̕ ἀπαμειθόμενος.
[tr. Bohn's Classical (1859)]

Lest his pains should be lost by publishing too short a book, he will fill it up with repetitions, like Homer's well-known verse.
[tr. Paley/Stone (1890)]

That my labor be not lost because published in tiny volumes, rather let there be added Τὸν δ̕ ἀπαμειθόμενος.
[tr. Ker (1919)]

For fear my fount of poetry run dry
"Him answering" is still my cuckoo-cry.
[tr. Francis & Tatum (1924), ep. 24]

To keep my little books from dropping dead
of brevity, I could pad with "... then he said."
[tr. Bovie (1970)]

Rather than have my work published in small volumes and so go to waste, let me say "to him in answer."
[tr. Shackleton Bailey (1993)]

Some value Books for their bulk, as if they were made rather to load the Arms than to exercise the mind.
[Flesher ed. (1685)]

Some reckon books by the thickness, as if they were written to try the brawn more than the brain.
[tr. Jacobs (1892)]

Some praise books for their girth, as if they were written to exercise our arms, not our wits.
[tr. Maurer (1992)]

Some things are good, indifferent some, some naught,
You read: a book can't otherwise be wrote.
[tr. Killigrew (1695)]

Here's some good things, some middling, more bad, you will see:
Else a book, my Avitus, it never could be.
[tr. Elphinston (1782), 12.6]

Some of my epigrams are good, some moderately so, more bad: there is no other way, Avitus, of making a book.
[tr. Amos (1858), 2.23 (cited as 1.17)]

Of the epigrams which you read here, some are good, some middling, many bad: a book, Avitus, cannot be made in any other way.
[tr. Bohn's Classical (1859)]

Here you will read some few good things, while some
Are mediocre, most are bad: 'tis thus
That every book's compiled.
[ed. Harbottle (1897)]

There are good things, there are some indifferent, there are more things bad that you read here. Not otherwise, Avitus, is a book produced.
[tr. Ker (1919)]

Good work you’ll find, some poor, and much that’s worse;
It takes all sorts to make a book of verse.
[tr. Pott & Wright (1921)]

Some things are good, some fair, but more you'll say
Are bad herein -- all books are made that way!
[tr. Duff (1929)]

Some of these epigrams are good,
Some mediocre, many bad.
Otherwise, it is understood,
A bookful of poems cannot be had.
[tr. Marcellino (1968)]

Among these lines you'll find a few
that are rather good, more that are only fair,
and a lot that are bad.
From that, Avitus, it may be deduced
just how a book is produced.
[tr. Bovie (1970)]

Some good, some middling, and some bad
You’ll find here. They are what I had.
[tr. Cunningham (1971)]

Some lines in here are good, some fair,
And most are frankly rotten;
No other kind of book, Avitus,
Can ever be begotten.
[tr. Wender (1980)]

There are good things that you read here, and some indifferent, and more bad. Not otherwise, Avitus, is a book made.
[tr. Shackleton Bailey (1993)]

Some good things here, and some not worth a look.
For this is that anomaly, a book.
[tr. Wills (2007)]

Some of my poems are good, some
not up to scratch, some
bad.
That’s how it is with most books,
if the truth were told.
Who tells the truth about truth, my dear?
Make way for the judge and the jester.
[tr. Kennelly (2008), "How It Is"]

You'll read some good things here, some fair, more worse.
There's no way else to make a book of verse.
[tr. McLean (2014)]

You're reading good poems here, Avitus -- and a few that are so-so, and a lot that are bad; a book doesn't happen any other way.
[tr. Nisbet (2015)]

Some good, some so-so, most of them naught!
Well, if not worse, the book may still be bought.
[Anon.]

But haste not you (my Bookes) for Fame, to whom
Tis soone enough if after death it come.
[tr. May (1629)]

Let others to the Printing Presse run fast.
Since after death comes glory, Ile not haste.
[tr. Herrick (1648)]

O my small books, ne'er hasten to go out:
If praise come after death, I'll not go on.
[tr. Fletcher (1656)]

Yet you (my Bookes!) hast not to much, I pray:
If fame come not till after death, I'll stay.
[British Library MS Add. 27343]

With patience then, my Muse, to glory hy:
If after death she come, I shall not dy.
[tr. Elphinston (1782), 3.62]

Do not, however, you little books of mine, be in haste for fame:
if glory comes only after death, I am in no hurry for it.
[tr. Bohn's Classical (1859)]

If I gain fame after my death, I am content to wait.
[tr. Paley/Stone (1890), ep. 221]

Therefore, little books of mine,
Haste not; if glory comes but after death,
I'll wait awhile for glory.
[ed. Harbottle (1897)]

Pray, my impatient Muse, don't worry.
If death's due first, I'm in no hurry.
[tr. Francis & Tatum (1924), ep. 221]

Impatient little books of verse
For the plaudits of the universe,
If fame comes only after death,
Let's pause and rest, and catch our breath.
[tr. Marcellino (1968)]

But there's no cause, my little books, to worry:
If glory must be posthumous, why hurry?
[tr. Michie (1972)]

So, little books, let's not rush to our fate.
Since death comes before glory, let's be late.
[tr. Matthews (1992)]

So be calm, my Muse -- no need to rush or fret:
If death must precede fame, I'll not be famous yet.
[tr. Ericsson (1995)]

If I must die to get my fame,
I gladly will put off the same.
[tr. Wills (2007)]

Then be content, my books, to be slow paced;
Death before glory means -- no need for haste.
[tr. Pitt-Kethley (2008)]

But you, my little books, don’t hurry:
if glory comes only after death, I will not rush.
[tr. Robinson (2022)]

If glory comes after death, I hurry not.
[tr. Rush]

The best effect of any book is that it excites the reader to self-activity.
 

Altogether, I think we ought to read only books that bite and sting us. If the book we are reading doesn't shake us awake like a blow to the skull, why botehr reading it in the first place? So that it can make us happy, as you put it? Good God, we'd be just as happy if we had no books at all; books that make us happy we could, in a pinch, also write ourselves. What we need are books that hit us like a most painful misfortune, like the death of someone we loved more than we love ourselves, that make us feel as though we had been banished to the woods, far from any human presence, like a suicide. A book must be the ax for the frozen sea within us. That is what I believe.
[tr. Pawel (1984)]

If the book we are reading does not wake us, as with a fist hammering on our skulls, then why do we read it? Good God, we also would be happy if we had no books and such books that make us happy we could, if need be, write ourselves. What we must have are those books that come on us like ill fortune, like the death of one we love better than ourselves, like suicide. A book must be an ice axe to break the sea frozen inside us.
[E.g. (1987)]

The books we need are the kind that act upon us like a misfortune, that make us suffer like the death of someone we love more than ourselves, that make us feel as though we were no the verge of suicide, or losrt in a forest remote from all human habitation -- a book should serve as the ax for the frozen sea within us.
[tr. Rahv (1952)]

A book should be an ice-axe to break the frozen sea within us.
[E.g.]

A book must be an ice-axe to break the seas frozen inside our soul.
[E.g.]

A writer appears before the public with his pants down. If it is a good book, nothing can hurt him. If it is a bad book, nothing can help him.

So was I speaking and weeping in the most bitter contrition of my heart, when, lo! I heard from a neighbouring house a voice, as of boy or girl, I know not, chanting, and oft repeating, "Take up and read; Take up and read."
[tr. Pusey (1838) and ed. Shedd (1860)]

I was saying these things and weeping in the most bitter contrition of my heart, when, lo, I heard the voice as of a boy or girl, I know not which, coming from a neighbouring house, chanting, and oft repeating, “Take up and read; take up and read.
[tr. Pilkington (1876)]

I spoke thus , and wept in the bitterest sorrow of my heart. And lo, I heard a voice as of a boy or girl from a neighbouring house, I know not which, chanting, and frequently repeating, "Take, read; take, read."
[tr. Hutchings (1890)]

Thus I spoke, weeping in bitter contrition of heart, when, lo, I heard a voice from the neighbouring house. It seemed as if some boy or girl, I knew not which, was repeating in a kind of chant the words, "Take and read, take and read."
[tr. Bigg (1897)]

Such things I said, weeping in the most bitter sorrow of my heart. And suddenly I heard a voice from some nearby house, a boy’s voice or a girl’s voice, I do not know: but it was a sort of sing-song, repeated again and again, “Take and read, take and read.”
[tr. Sheed (1943)]

I was saying these things and weeping in the most bitter contrition of my heart, when suddenly I heard the voice of a boy or a girl -- I know not which -- coming from the neighboring house, chanting over and over again, “Pick it up, read it; pick it up, read it.”
[tr. Outler (1955)]

Such words I spoke, and with most bitter contrition I wept within my heart. And lo, I heard from a nearby house, a voice like that of a boy or a girl, I know not which, chanting and repeating over and over, “Take up and read. Take up and read.”
[tr. Ryan (1960)]

So I spoke, weeping in the bitter contrition of my heart. Suddenly a voice reaches my ears from a nearby house. It is the voice of a boy or a girl (I don’t know which) and in a kind of singsong the words are constantly repeated: “Take it and read it. Take it and read it.”
[tr. Warner (1963)]

Such were my words and I wept in the bitter contrition of my heart. And, see, I heard a voice from a neighbouring house chanting repeatedly, whether a boy’s or a girl’s voice I do not know: "Pick it up and read it, pick it up and read it."
[tr. Blaiklock (1983)]