So, confronted with this hoard of stolen riches, the question of who writes or who does not write for children becomes unimportant and, in fact, irrelevant. For every book is a message, and if children happen to receive and like it, they will appropriate it to themselves no matter what the author may say or what label he gives himself. And those who, against all odds and I’m one of them — protest that they do not write for children, cannot help being aware of this fact and are, I assure you, grateful.
P. L. Travers (1899-1996) Australian-British writer [Pamela Lyndon Travers; b. Helen Lyndon Goff]
Essay (1978-07-02), “I Never Wrote for Children,” New York Times (Source)
Shelved rows of books warm and brighten the starkest room, and scattered single volumes reveal mental processes in progress — books in the act of consumption, abandoned but readily resumable, tomorrow or next year. By bedside and easy chair, books promise a cozy, swift, and silent release from this world into another, with no current involved but the free and scarcely detectable crackle of brain cells. For ease of access and storage, books are tough to beat.
John Updike (1932-2009) American writer
Essay (2000-06-18), “Books Unbound, Life Unraveled,” New York Times (Source)
Collected as "A Case for Books," Due Considerations: Essays and Considerations (2007).
Books that children read but once are of scant service to them; those that have really helped to warm our imaginations and to train our faculties are the few old friends we know so well that they have become a portion of our thinking selves.
Agnes Repplier (1855-1950) American writer
“What Children Read,” Books and Men (1888)
(Source)
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.
Henry Miller (1891-1980) American novelist The Books in My Life, ch. 1 “They Were Alive and They Spoke to Me” (1952)
(Source)
In books we take for eloquence not only all that strengthens our passions, but also whatever strengthens our opinions.
[tr. Lyttelton (1899), ch. 22, ¶ 74]
The voice of a man when he reads reveals not what he is, but what he wants to be. It is the voice of the personage whom he visualizes when he thinks of himself.
André Maurois (1885-1967) French author [b. Émile Salomon Wilhelm Herzog] Conversation, “Confidences” (1930)
(Source)
Few books give life-long pleasure. There are some for which, with the growth of time, wisdom, and good sense, we lose all taste.
[tr. Lyttelton (1899), ch. 22, ¶ 84]
Some of my youthful readers are developing wonderful imaginations. This pleases me. Imagination has brought mankind through the Dark Ages to its present state of civilization. Imagination led Columbus to discover America. Imagination led Franklin to discover electricity. Imagination has given us the steam engine, the telephone, the talking-machine, and the automobile, for these things had to be dreamed of before they became realities. So I believe that dreams — day dreams, you know, with your eyes wide open and your brain machinery whizzing — are likely to lead to the betterment of the world. The imaginative child will become the imaginative man or woman most apt to create, to invent, and therefore to foster civilization. A prominent educator tells me that fairy tales are of untold value in developing imagination in the young. I believe it.
L. Frank Baum (1856-1919) American author [Lyman Frank Baum] The Lost Princess of Oz, Introduction (1917)
(Source)
Study has always been for me the sovereign remedy against life’s unpleasantness, since I have never experienced any sorrow that an hour’s reading did not eliminate.
[L’étude a été pour moi le souverain remède contre les dégoûts de la vie, n’ayant jamais eu de chagrin qu’une heure de lecture n’ait dissipé.]
Charles-Lewis de Secondat, Baron de Montesquieu (1689-1755) French political philosopher Pensées [Thoughts], # 213 (1720-1755) [tr. Clark (2012)]
(Source)
Study has been my sovereign remedy against the worries of life. I have never had a care that an hour's reading could not dispel.
[Source (1826)]
Study is a sovereign remedy against the troubles of life; there is no vexation which an hour's reading cannot mitigate.
[E.g. (1877)]
Study has been to me a sovereign remedy against the vexations of life, having never had an annoyance that one hour's reading did not dissipate.
[E.g. (1905)]
Study has been my sovereign remedy against life's disappointment; I have never known any distress that an hour's reading did not relieve.
[ed. Guterman (1963)]
Vacation cruises are advertised as luxurious journeys to exotic places, but a chief pleasure is the reading of books [….] On steamer chairs topside or poolside, in the lounges, everywhere you see men and women with their noses in books, devouring them for hours. The Book: Man’s Chief Weapon Against Tedium. Woman’s too.
Garrison Keillor (b. 1942) American entertainer, author
“The Floating Village,” New York Times (2010-01-06)
(Source)
Most agree that books worth reading are worth reading more than once.
Holbrook Jackson (1874-1948) English journalist, editor, author The Anatomy of Bibliomania, Vol. 1, Part 11, ch. 7 “Readers Who Never Weary” (1930)
(Source)
Reading is a joy, but not an unalloyed joy. Books do not make life easier or more simple, but harder and more interesting.
Harry Golden (1902-1981) Austrian-American writer and newspaper publisher [b. Herschel Goldhirsch] So What Else is New?, “How to read a book, and why” (1964)
(Source)
If a book read when young is a lover, that same book, reread later on, is a friend. […] This may sound like a demotion, but after all, it is old friends, not lovers, to whom you are most likely to turn when you need comfort. Fatigue, grief, and illness call for familiarity, not innovation.
Anne Fadiman (b. 1953) American essayist, journalist, literary critic, teacher Rereadings: Seventeen Writers Revisit Books They Love, Foreword (2005)
“What think you of books?” said he, smiling. “Books — oh! no. I am sure we never read the same, or not with the same feelings.” “I am sorry you think so; but if that be the case, there can at least be no want of subject. We may compare our different opinions.”
Jane Austen (1775-1817) English author Pride and Prejudice, ch. 18 [Darcy and Elizabeth] (1813)
(Source)
Books are like imprisoned souls until someone takes them down from a shelf and frees them.
Samuel Butler (1835-1902) English novelist, satirist, scholar The Note-Books of Samuel Butler, ch. 7 “On the Making of Music, Pictures and Books,” “Thought and Word,” sec. 9 (1912)
(Source)
There is really no way of considering a book independently of one’s special sensations in reading it on a particular occasion. In this as in everything else one must allow a certain relativity. In a sense, one can never read the book that the author originally wrote, and one can never read the same book twice.
Edmund Wilson, Jr. (1895-1972) American writer, literary critic, journalist The Triple Thinkers, Foreword (1948 ed.)
(Source)
A good heavy book holds you down. It’s an anchor that keeps you from getting up and having another gin and tonic. Many a person has been saved from summer alcoholism, not to mention hypertoxicity, by Dostoyevsky.
Roy Blount, Jr. (b. 1941) American writer, speaker, journalist, humorist
“Reading and Nothingness: Of Proust in the Summer Sun,” New York Times (1985-06-02)
(Source)
A book is a garden; a book is an orchard; a book is a storehouse; a book is a party. It is company by the way; it is a counselor; it is a multitude of counselors.
Henry Ward Beecher (1813-1887) American clergyman and orator Proverbs From Plymouth Pulpit, “The Press” (1887) [ed. Drysdale]
(Source)
What had men thought? What had men believed? How did they come by those thoughts and beliefs? How had men learned to govern themselves? Were the processes the same everywhere?
Did man build cities because of an inner drive, like that of a beaver to build dams? How much of what we do is free will, and how much is programmed in our genes? Why is each people so narrow that it believes that it, and it alone, has all the answers? In religion, is there but one road to salvation? Or are there many, all equally good, all going in the same general direction?
I have read my books by many lights, hoarding their beauty, their wit or wisdom against the dark days when I would have no book, nor a place to read.
I have known hunger of the belly kind many times over, but I have known a worse hunger: the need to know and to learn.
Louis L'Amour (1908-1988) American writer Education of a Wandering Man: A Memoir, ch. 11 (1989)
(Source)
Reading those turgid philosophers here in these remote stone buildings may not get you a job, but if those books have forced you to ask yourself questions about what makes life truthful, purposeful, meaningful, and redeeming, you have the Swiss Army Knife of mental tools, and it’s going to come in handy all the time.
Bill Watterson (b. 1958) American cartoonist
Commencement Address, Kenyon College (1990-05-20)
(Source)
One day together, for pastime, we read Of Lancelot, and how Love held him in thrall. We were alone, and without any dread.
Sometimes our eyes, at the word’s secret call, Met, and our cheeks a changing color wore. But it was one page only that did all.
When we read how that smile, so thirsted for, Was kissed by such a lover, he that may Never from me be separated more
All trembling kissed my mouth. The book I say Was a Galahalt to us, and he beside that wrote that book. We read no more that day.
Gustave Dore – Divine Comedy, Inferno, Canto 5 “The Souls of Paolo and Francesca” (1857)
[Noi leggiavamo un giorno per diletto di Lancialotto come amor lo strinse; soli eravamo e sanza alcun sospetto.
Per più fïate li occhi ci sospinse quella lettura, e scolorocci il viso; ma solo un punto fu quel che ci vinse.
Quando leggemmo il disïato riso esser basciato da cotanto amante, questi, che mai da me non fia diviso,
la bocca mi basciò tutto tremante. Galeotto fu ‘l libro e chi lo scrisse: quel giorno più non vi leggemmo avante.]
Dante Alighieri (1265-1321) Italian poet The Divine Comedy [Divina Commedia], Book 1 “Inferno,” Canto 5, l. 127ff (5.127-138) [Francesca] (1309) [tr. Binyon (1943)]
(Source)
In the Old French romance of Lancelot du Lac they were reading, Sir Gallehault (spelled variously) serves as go-between for Lancelot and Guinevere (a couple not able to express their love because of her marriage to King Arthur), and ultimately persuades the Queen to give Lancelot a first, dooming kiss. Similarly, Paolo was the intermediary to arrange the marriage of his brother, Gianciotto, and Francesca. After the marriage, reading together that racy tale of Lancelot seduced Paolo and Francesca into pursuing their carnal affair.
The Italian form of Gallehault -- "Galeotto" or "Galleot" -- became Middle Ages Italian slang for a panderer or pimp, and Francesca draws on this meaning in her chat with the Pilgrim, blaming the book and its writer for her damning sins with Paolo. See also, earlier, here.
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]
A book read by a thousand different people is a thousand different books.
Andrei Tarkovsky (1932-1986) Russian film director, screenwriter, film theorist [Андрей Арсеньевич Тарковский] Sculpting in Time (1986) [tr. Hunter-Blair]
(Source)
If an epigram takes up a page, you skip it: Art counts for nothing, you prefer the snippet.
The markets have been ransacked for you, reader, Rich fare — and you want canapes instead!
I’m not concerned with the fastidious feeder: Give me the man who likes his basic bread.
[Consumpta est uno si lemmate pagina, transis,
Et breviora tibi, non meliora placent.
Dives et ex omni posita est instructa macello
Cena tibi, sed te mattea sola iuvat.
Non opus est nobis nimium lectore guloso;
Hunc volo, non fiat qui sine pane satur.]
Martial (AD c.39-c.103) Spanish Roman poet, satirist, epigrammatist [Marcus Valerius Martialis] Epigrams [Epigrammata], Book 10, epigram 59 (10.59) (AD 95, 98 ed.) [tr. Michie (1972)]
(Source)
If one sole epigram takes up a page, You turn it o'er, and will not there engage:
Consulting not its worth, but your dear ease; And not what's good, but what is short, does please.
I serve a feast with all the richest fare The market yields; for tarts you only care.
My books not fram'd such liq'rish guests to treat, But such as relish bread, and solid meat.
[tr. Killigrew (1695)]
If one small theme exhaust a page, 'Though fli'st upon the wings of rage,
To fewer words, tho' not more fine; And met'st my matter, by the line.
A rich repast, from ev'ry stall, We see upon thy palate pall.
We fear a sickly appetite, Where tid-bits onely can delight.
Out oh! may I receive no guest Who picks the tiny for the best.
His taste wills tand him more to sted, Who makes no meal up without bread.
[tr. Elphinston (1782), Book 3, ep. 11]
If one subject occupies a whole page, you pass over it; short epigrams, rather than good ones, seem to please you. A rich repast, consisting of every species of dish, is set before you, out only dainty bits gratify your taste. I do not covet a reader with such an over-nice palate; I want one that is not content to make a meal without bread.
[tr. Bohn's Classical (1859)]
You have no patience for the page-long skit, Your taste is ruled by brevity, not wit.
Ransack the mart, make you a banquet rare, You'll pick the titbit from the bill of fare;
I have no use for suchy a dainty guest; Who ekes his dinner out with bread is best.
[tr. Street (1907)]
If a column is taken up by a single subject, you skip it, and the shorter epigrams please you, not the better. A meal, rich and furnished from every market, has been placed before you, but only a dainty attracts you. I have no need of a reader too nice: I want him who is not satisfied without bread.
[tr. Ker (1919)]
You like the shortest poems, not the best, Tis those you always read -- and skip the rest;
I spread a varied banquet for your taste, You take made dishes and the rest you waste.
And wrong your appetite, for truth to tell A satisfying meal needs bread as well.
[tr. Pott & Wright (1921)]
You've read one epigram; the rest you skip; Shortness, not sweetness suits your censorship.
A whole rich mart's outspread before your feet; And yet a small tit-bit's your only treat.
I want no gluttonous reader, no, indeed! Still I prefer one who on bread can feed.
[tr. Francis & Tatum (1924) ep. 554]
If a poem of mine fills up a page, You pass it by. You'd rather read
The shorter, not the better ones. A fear to answer every need,
Rich and varied, and supplied With many viands widely drawn
From every shop is offered you, And yet you glance at it with scorn,
The dainties only pleasing you. Fussy reader, away! Instead
Give me a guest who with his meal Must have some homely peasant bread.
[tr. Marcellino (1968)]
If a page is used up with a single title, you pass it by; you like the shorter items, not the better ones. A sumptuous dinner furnished from every market is served you, but you care only for a tidbit. I don't want a reader with too fine a palate; give me the man who doesn't feel full without bread.
[tr. Shackleton Bailey (1993)]
A whole damned page crammed with verse -- so you yawn! If a poem's too long you move swiftly on;
"Shorter the better!" is your golden rule. But markets are scoured to make the tongue drool;
A groaning board's set -- rich sauces for days -- And yet, dear reader, you want canapés?
But I don't hunger for diners so prude: Hail meat and potatoes -- screw finger food!
[tr. Schmidgall (2001)]
If just one poem fills a page, you skip it. The short ones please you, not the best. I serve
a lavish dinner culled from every market, but you are only pleased with the hors d'oeuvre.
A finicky reader's not for me; instead, I want one who's not full without some bread.
[tr. McLean (2014)]
I know that the Bible is a special kind of book, but I find it as seductive as any other. If I am not careful, I can begin to mistake the words on the page for the realities they describe. I can begin to love the dried ink marks on the page more than I love the encounters that gave rise to them. If I am not careful, I can decide that I am really much happier reading my Bible than I am entering into what God is doing in my own time and place, since shutting the book to go outside will involve the very great risk of taking part in stories that are still taking shape. Neither I nor anyone else knows how these stories will turn out, since at this point they involve more blood than ink. The whole purpose of the Bible, it seems to me, is to convince people to set the written word down in order to become living words in the world for God’s sake. For me, this willing conversion of ink back to blood is the full substance of faith.
Barbara Brown Taylor (b. 1951) American minister, academic, author Leaving Church: A Memoir of Faith, Part 1 (2006)
(Source)
There is a class of people wanting to be called philosophers, who are said to have produced many books actually in Latin. For my part I don’t despise them — I’ve never read them. But since those selfsame writers proclaim that what they write is neither systematic nor properly subdivided nor correct nor polished in style, I pass by reading what would bring no pleasure.
[Est enim quoddam genus eorum qui se philosophos appellari volunt, quorum dicuntur esse Latini sane multi libri; quos non contemno equidem, quippe quos numquam legerim; sed quia profitentur ipsi illi qui eos scribunt se neque distincte neque distribute neque eleganter neque ornate scribere, lectionem sine ulla delectatione neglego.]
Marcus Tullius Cicero (106-43 BC) Roman orator, statesman, philosopher Tusculan Disputations [Tusculanae Disputationes], Book 2, ch. 3 (2.3) / sec. 7 (45 BC) [tr. Douglas (1990)]
(Source)
For there is a certain Set of such as assume to themselves the name of Philosophers, who are said to have Books enough in Latin, which I do not despise, for I have never read them; but because the Authors profess themselves, that they write neither with distinction of Terms, nor distribution of Parts, nor elegancy of Language, nor any Ornaments; I neglect to give that reading which is no ways delightful
[tr. Wase (1643)]
For there is a farther certain tribe who would willingly be called philosophers, whose books in our language are said to be numerous, which I do not despise, for indeed I never read the: but because the authors themselves declare that they write without any regularity or method, without elegance or ornament: I do not choose to read what is so void of entertainment.
[tr. Main (1824)]
For there is a certain race, who wish to be called philosophers, whose Latin books, indeed, are said to be numerous, which I have no contempt for, really, because I never read them; but, since their authors themselves profess to write without either order or method, ornament or elegance, I neglect a reading which affords me no delight.
[tr. Otis (1839)]
For there is a certain class of them who would willingly be called philosophers, whose books in our language are said to be numerous, and which I do not despise, for indeed I never read them: but still because the authors themselves declare that they write without any regularity, or method, or elegance, or ornament, I do not care to read what must be so void of entertainment.
[tr. Yonge (1853)]
There is, indeed, a certain class of men who want to be called philosophers, who are said to have written many Latin books, which I do not despise, because I have never read them; but inasmuch as their authors profess to write with neither precision, nor system, nor elegance, nor ornament, I omit reading what can give me no pleasure.
[tr. Peabody (1886)]
There is a certain class of authors, who wish to be called philosophers, and who have apparently published many books in Latin. I do not, indeed, condemn them, because I never read them, but because they themselves confess that they have not written their books clearly or in a well-arranged manner, nor elegantly or with any ornament. I avoid the sort of reading which offers no enjoyment.
[tr. @sentantiq (2015)]
There exists a class of men who lay claim to the title of philosophers and are said to be authors of a great many books in Latin. These I personally do not despise, for the reason that I have never read them; but as the writers of these books on their own admission avoid in what they write a systematic approach, due subdivision, correctness, or a polished style. I have no interest in reading what brings no pleasure.
[tr. Davie (2017)]
With many readers, brilliancy of style passes for affluence of thought; they mistake buttercups in the grass for immeasurable gold mines under the ground.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882) American poet Kavanagh: A Tale, ch. 13 (1849)
(Source)
There are worse crimes than burning books. One of them is not reading them.
Joseph Brodsky (1940-1996) Russian-American poet, essayist, Nobel laureate, US Poet Laureate [Iosif Aleksandrovič Brodskij]
Press conference, Library of Congress, Washington (17 May 1991)
Let us read, and let us dance; these two amusements will never do any harm to the world.
Voltaire (1694-1778) French writer [pseud. of Francois-Marie Arouet] Philosophical Dictionary [Dictionnaire Philosophique], “Liberty of the Press” (1764)
(Source)
Dreams, books, are each a world; and books we know,
Are a substantial world, both pure and good:
Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood,
Our pastime and our happiness will grow.
William Wordsworth (1770-1850) English poet
“Personal Talk,” st. 3 (1846)
(Source)
A novel which survives, which withstands and outlives time, does do something more than merely survive. It does not stand still. It accumulates round itself the understanding of all these persons who bring to it something of their own. It acquires associations, it becomes a form of experience in itself, so that two people who meet can often make friends, find an approach to each other, because of this one great common experience they have had.
Elizabeth Bowen (1899-1973) Irish author
“Truth and Fiction,” BBC Radio (Oct 1956)
(Source)
What really knocks me out is a book that, when you’re all done reading it, you wish the author that wrote it was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him up on the phone whenever you felt like it. That doesn’t happen much, though.
J. D. Salinger (1919-2010) American writer [Jerome David Salinger] The Catcher in the Rye, ch. 3 (1951)
“If you give a nigger an inch, he will take an ell. A nigger should know nothing but to obey his master — to do as he is told to do. Learning will spoil the best nigger in the world. Now, if you teach that nigger how to read, there would be no keeping him. It would forever unfit him to be a slave. He would at once become unmanageable, and of no value to his master. As to himself, it could do him no good, but a great deal of harm. It would make him discontented and unhappy.”
Frederick Douglass (1817-1895) American abolitionist, orator, writer Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, ch. 6 [Mr. Auld] (1845)
(Source)
Quoting his master, Auld, chastising Mrs. Auld for teaching Douglass to read. Frequently paraphrased down to "Knowledge makes a man unfit to be a slave."
The owner of the library is not he who holds a legal title to it, having bought and paid for it. Anyone and everyone is owner of the library who can read the same through all the varieties of tongues and subjects and styles, and in whom they enter with ease and take residence and force toward paternity and maternity, and make supple and powerful and rich and large.
Walt Whitman (1819-1892) American poet Leaves of Grass, Preface (1855)
(Source)
Reprinted on the wall of Atlantis Books, Oia, Santorini, Greece.
I’ve learned to write in the first-person singular while remembering always that my writing must speak to the first-person plural.
Maya Angelou (1928-2014) American poet, memoirist, activist [b. Marguerite Ann Johnson]
“The Art of Fiction,” Paris Review, #116, Interview with George Plimpton (1990)
(Source)
May your coming year be filled with magic and dreams and good madness. I hope you read some fine books and kiss someone who thinks you’re wonderful, and don’t forget to make some art — write or draw or build or sing or live as only you can. And I hope, somewhere in the next year, you surprise yourself.
Neil Gaiman (b. 1960) British author, screenwriter, fabulist
Blog entry (2001-12-31), “As I Was Saying”
(Source)
Back in the nineteen-hundreds it was a wonderful experience for a boy to discover H. G. Wells. There you were, in a world of pedants, clergymen and golfers, with your future employers exhorting you to “get on or get out”, your parents systematically warping your sexual life, and your dull-witted schoolmasters sniggering over their Latin tags; and here was this wonderful man who could tell you about the inhabitants of the planets and the bottom of the sea, and who knew that the future was not going to be what respectable people imagined.
George Orwell (1903-1950) English writer [pseud. of Eric Arthur Blair]
“Wells, Hitler, and the World State,” Horizon (Aug 1941)
(Source)
The book has been man’s greatest triumph. Seated in my library, I live in a Time Machine. In an instant I can be transmitted to any era, any part of the world, even to outer space. I have lived in every period of history. I have listened to Buddha speak, marched with Alexander, sailed with the Vikings, ridden in canoes with the Polynesians. I have been at the courts of Queen Elizabeth and Louis XIV; I have been a friend to Captain Nemo and have sailed with Captain Bligh on the Bounty. I have walked in the agora with Socrates and Plato, and listened to Jesus deliver the Sermon on the Mount.
Best of all, I can do it all again, at any moment. The books are there. I have only to reach up to the shelves and take them down to relive the moments I have loved.
Louis L'Amour (1908-1988) American writer The Sackett Companion (1988)
(Source)
I must say I find television very educational. The minute somebody turns it on, I go into the library and read a good book.
Groucho Marx (1890-1977) American comedian [b. Julius Henry Marx]
“King Leer,” Tele-Views (Sep 1950)
Commonly paraphrased: "I find television very educational. Every time someone switches it on, I go into another room and read a good book." A number of uses of this line by Marx are found around the same time frame, with variant wordings. See here for more discussion.
The Cool Stuff Theory of Literature is as follows: All literature consists of whatever the writer thinks is cool. The reader will like the book to the degree that he agrees with the writer about what’s cool. And that works all the way from the external trappings to the level of metaphor, subtext, and the way one uses words. In other words, I happen not to think that full-plate armor and great big honking greatswords are cool. I don’t like ’em. I like cloaks and rapiers. So I write stories with a lot of cloaks and rapiers in ’em, ’cause that’s cool.
Steven Brust (b. 1955) American writer, systems programmer The Paths of the Dead (2002)
In the essay "Some Notes Toward Two Analyses of Auctorial Method and Voice" by Teresa Nielsen Hayden.
The pleasantest of all diversions is to sit alone under the lamp, a book spread out before you, and to make friends with people of a distant past you have never known.
Yoshida Kenkō (1284-1350) Japanese author and Buddhist monk [吉田 兼好] Essays in Idleness [Tsurezuregusa] (c. 1330)
All novels are, or should be, written for both men and women to read, and I am at loss to conceive how a man should permit himself to write anything that would be really disgraceful to a woman, or why a woman should be censured for writing anything that would be proper and becoming for a man.
Anne Brontë (1820-1849) British novelist, poet [pseud. Acton Bell] The Tenant of Wildfell Hall, Preface (1848)
(Source)
I am always for getting a boy forward in his learning; for that is a sure good. I would let him at first read any English book which happens to engage his attention; because you have done a great deal when you have brought him to have entertainment from a book. He’ll get better books afterwards.
Samuel Johnson (1709-1784) English writer, lexicographer, critic
In James Boswell, The Life of Samuel Johnson “16 April 1779” (1791)
Take a book, the poorest one written, but read it with the passion that it is the only book you will read — ultimately you will read everything out of it, that is, as much as there was in yourself, and you could never get more out of reading, even if you read the best of books.
Søren Kierkegaard (1813-1855) Danish philosopher, theologian Stages on Life’s Way (1845)
What refuge is there for the victim who is oppressed with the feeling that there are a thousand new books he ought to read, while life is only long enough for him to attempt to read a hundred?
Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr. (1809-1894) American poet, essayist, scholar Over the Teacups, ch. 7 (1891)
In a very real sense, people who have read good literature have lived more than people who cannot or will not read. […] It is not true that we have only one life to live; if we can read, we can live as many more lives and as many kinds of lives as we wish.
Samuel Ichiye "S. I." Hayakawa (1906-1992) Canadian-American academic and politician Language in Thought and Action (1978)
Books are a delightful society. If you go into a room filled with books, even without taking them down from their shelves, they seem to speak to you, to welcome you, to tell you that they have something inside their covers that will be good for you, and that they are willing and desirous to impart it to you.
William Gladstone (1809-1898) English Liberal politician, Prime Minister (1868-74, 1880-85, 1886, 1892-94)
“The Workman’s Opportunities,” speech, Saltney (26 Oct 1889)
(Source)
We are of opinion that instead of letting books grow moldy behind an iron grating, far from the vulgar gaze, it is better to let them wear out by being read.
Jules Verne (1828-1905) French novelist, poet, playwright
Journey to the Center of the Earth (1864)
(Source)
I suggest that the only books that influence us are those for which we are ready, and which have gone a little farther down our particular path than we have yet got ourselves.
E. M. Forster (1879-1970) English novelist, essayist, critic, librettist [Edward Morgan Forster] Two Cheers for Democracy (1951)
Let us tenderly and kindly cherish, therefore, the means of knowledge. Let us dare to read, think, speak and write.
John Adams (1735-1826) American lawyer, Founding Father, statesman, US President (1797-1801)
Essay (1765-10-21), “A Dissertation on the Canon and the Feudal Law,” No. 4, Boston Gazette (Source)
Reading after a certain age diverts the mind too much from its creative pursuits. Any man who reads too much and uses his own brain too little falls into lazy habits of thinking, just as the man who spends too much time in the theater is tempted to be content with living vicariously instead of living his own life.
Albert Einstein (1879-1955) German-American physicist
“What Life Means to Einstein,” Interview with G. Viereck, Saturday Evening Post (26 Oct 1929)
(Source)
Reprinted in George Sylvester Viereck, Glimpses of the Great (1930).
There is more treasure in books than in all the pirates loot on Treasure Island and at the bottom of the Spanish Main … and, best of all, you can enjoy these riches every day
of your life.
Walt Disney (1901-1966) American entrepreneur, animator, film producer, showman
(Attributed)
Reading good books is like having a conversation with the most distinguished men of past ages — indeed, a rehearsed conversation in which these authors reveal to us only the best of their thoughts.
[Que la lecture de tous les bons livres est comme une conversation avec les plus honnêtes gens des siècles passés, qui en ont été les auteurs, et même une conversation étudiée en laquelle ils ne nous découvrent que les meilleures de leurs pensées.]
René Descartes (1596-1650) French philosopher, mathematician Discourse on Method [Discours de la méthode], Part 1 (1637) [tr. Cottingham, Stoothoff (1985)]
(Source)
The reading of good books, is like the conversation with the honestest persons of the past age, who were the Authors of them, and even a studied conversation, wherein they discover to us the best only of their thoughts.
[tr. Newcombe ed. (1649)]
The perusal of all excellent books is, as it were, to interview with the noblest men of past ages, who have written them, and even a studied interview, in which are discovered to us only their choicest thoughts.
[tr. Veitch (1901)]
I was aware that the reading of all good books is indeed like a conversation with the noblest men of past centuries who were the authors of them, nay a carefully studied conversation, in which they reveal to us none but the best of their thoughts.
[tr. Haldane, Ross (1911)]
The reading of all good books is like a conversation with the finest men of past ages, who are their authors, and even a studied conversation in which they unfold to us only the best of their thoughts.
[tr. Kennington (1964-76)]
The reading of good books is like a conversation with the best men of past centuries -- in fact like a prepared conversation, in which they reveal only the best of their thought.
[tr. Ascombe, Geach (1971)]
The reading of all good books is like a conversation with the finest men of past centuries.
[Common translation, unsourced]
A truly great book should be read in youth, again in maturity, and once more in old age, as a fine building should be seen by morning light, at noon and by moonlight.
Robertson Davies (1913-1995) Canadian author, editor, publisher
“Too Much, Too Fast,” Peterborough Examiner (Canada) (1962-06-16)
(Source)
Make your own Bible. Select and collect all the words and sentences that in all your reading have been to you like the blast of trumpet out of Shakespeare, Seneca, Moses, John, and Paul.
Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882) American essayist, lecturer, poet
Journal (1836)
The best of all ways to make one’s reading valuable is to write about it, and so I hope my Cousin Elizabeth has a blank book where she keeps some record of her thoughts.
Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882) American essayist, lecturer, poet
Letter to Elizabeth Tucker (1832-02-01)
You don’t have to burn books to destroy a culture. Just get people to stop reading them.
Ray Bradbury (1920-2012) American writer, futurist, fabulist
“Bradbury Still Believes in Heat of ‘Fahrenheit 451,'” interview by Misha Berson, The Seattle Times (12 Mar 1993)
(Source)
Bradbury is often quoted as saying, "There are worse crimes than burning books. One of them is not reading them." I can't find an actual citation for that, though this is a very similar sentiment. That actual quotation is also attributed to Joseph Brodsky.
You must understand the whole of life, not just one little part of it. That is why you must read, that is why you must look at the skies, that is why you must sing and dance, and write poems and suffer and understand, for all that is life.
Jiddu Krishnamurti (1895-1986) Indian philosopher, mystic, orator Think on These Things, Part 1, ch. 3 (1963)
(Source)
Good friends, good books, and a sleepy conscience: This is the ideal life.
Mark Twain (1835-1910) American writer [pseud. of Samuel Clemens]
Note (1898-07-04), Mark Twain’s Notebook, ch. 21 “In Vienna” (1935) [ed. Albert Bigelow Paine]
(Source)
Written while summering at a resort outside of Vienna. Paine notes, "Written in the Archduchess's album" (referring to Marie Theresa of Austria).
Books are the carriers of civilization. Without books, history is silent, literature, dumb, science crippled, thought and speculation at a standstill. Without books, the development of civilization would have been impossible. The are engines of change (as the poet said), windows on the world, and lighthouses erected in the sea of time. They are companions, teachers, magicians, bankers of the treasures of the mind. Books are humanity in print.
Barbara W. Tuchman (1912-1989) American historian and author
“The Book,” Lecture, Library of Congress (1979-10-17)
(Source)
You know I’ve noticed a certain anti-intellectualism going around this country ever since around 1980, coincidentally enough. I was in Nashville, Tennessee last weekend and after the show I went to a Waffle House, and I’m sitting there and I’m eating and reading a book. I don’t know anybody, I’m alone, I’m eating and I’m reading a book. This waitress comes over to me (mocks chewing gum) “What you readin’ for?” Wow, I’ve never been asked that; not “What am I reading,” “What am I reading for?” Well, goddammit, you stumped me. I guess I read for a lot of reasons — the main one is so I don’t end up being a fuckin’ waffle waitress. Yeah, that would be pretty high on the list. Then this trucker in the booth next to me gets up, stands over me and says [mocks Southern drawl] “Well, looks like we got ourselves a readah.” What the fuck’s going on? It’s like I walked into a Klan rally in a Boy George costume or something. Am I stepping out of some intellectual closet here? I read, there I said it. I feel better.
Bill Hicks (1961-1994) American stand-up comedian, social critic, satirist, musician [William Melvin "Bill" Hicks] Sane Man (1989)
Readers usually grossly underestimate their own importance. If a reader cannot create a book along with the writer, the book will never come to life. Creative involvement: that’s the difference between reading a book and watching TV. In watching TV, we are passive — sponges; we do nothing. In reading, we must become creators, imagining the setting of the story, seeing the facial expressions, hearing the inflection of the voices. The author and the reader “know” each other; they meet on the bridge of words.
Madeleine L'Engle (1918-2007) American writer Walking on Water: Reflections on Faith and Art (1982)
Life without literature is a life reduced to penury. It expands you in every way. It illuminates what you’re doing. It shows you possibilities you haven’t thought of. It enables you to live the lives of other people than yourself. It broadens you, it makes you more human. It makes life enjoyable.
M. H. Abrams (1912-2015) American literary critic [Meyer (Mike) Howard Abrams]
“Built to Last,” interview with Stephen Greenblatt, The New York Times: Sunday Book Review (23 Aug 2012)
(Source)
Those authors into whose hands nature has placed a magic wand, with which they no sooner touch us than we forget the unhappiness in life, than the darkness leaves our soul, and we are reconciled to existence, should be placed among the benefactors of the human race.
Denis Diderot (1713-1784) French editor, philosopher
(Attributed)
Attributed in Maturin M. Ballou, Treasury of Thought (1884 ed.).
Although my book is intended mainly for the entertainment of boys and girls, I hope it will not be shunned by men and women on that account, for part of my plan has been to try to pleasantly remind adults of what they once were themselves, and of how they felt and thought and talked, and what queer enterprises they sometimes engaged in.
Mark Twain (1835-1910) American writer [pseud. of Samuel Clemens] The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Preface (1876)
If you can’t read and write you can’t think. Your thoughts are dispersed if you don’t know how to read and write. You’ve got to be able to look at your thoughts on paper and discover what a fool you were.
Ray Bradbury (1920-2012) American writer, futurist, fabulist
“Ray Bradbury is on fire!”, interview with James Hibberd, Salon.com (29 Aug 2001)
(Source)
Try to leave out the part that readers tend to skip. Think of what you skip reading a novel: thick paragraphs of prose you can see have too many words in them.
Elmore Leonard (1925-2013) American novelist and screenwriter
In “Ten Rules for Writing Fiction,” The Guardian (20 Feb 2010)
(Source)
A frequent piece of advice from Leonard, e.g.:
"I leave out the parts that people skip." When asked about the popularity of his detective novels. Quoted in William Zinsser, A Family of Readers (1986)
"Try to leave out the part that readers tend to skip." In "Making It Up as I Go Along," AARP Magazine (Jul/Aug 2009).
A person who does not read cannot think. He may have good mental processes, but he has nothing to think about. You can feel for people or natural phenomena and react to them, but they are not ideas. You cannot think about them.
Rex Stout (1886-1975) American writer
In “Author Rex Stout vs. the FBI,” Interview with Sandra Schmidt, Life (10 Dec 1965)
I think we ought to read only the kind of books that wound and stab us. If the book we are reading doesn’t wake us up with a blow on the head, what are we reading it for? So that it will make us happy, as you write? Good Lord, we would be happy precisely if we had no books, and the kind of books that make us happy are the kind we could write ourselves if we had to. But we need the books that affect us like a disaster, that grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from everyone, like a suicide. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea inside us. That is my belief.
[Ich glaube, man sollte überhaupt nur solche Bücher lesen, die einen beißen und stechen. Wenn das Buch, das wir lesen, uns nicht mit einem Faustschlag auf den Schädel weckt, wozu lesen wir dann das Buch? Damit es uns glücklich macht, wie Du schreibst? Mein Gott, glücklich wären wir eben auch, wenn wir keine Bücher hätten, und solche Bücher, die uns glücklich machen, könnten wir zur Not selber schreiben. Wir brauchen aber die Bücher, die auf uns wirken wie ein Unglück, das uns sehr schmerzt, wie der Tod eines, den wir lieber hatten als uns, wie wenn wir in Wälder verstoßen würden, von allen Menschen weg, wie ein Selbstmord, ein Buch muß die Axt sein für das gefrorene Meer in uns. Das glaube ich.]
Franz Kafka (1883-1924) Czech-Austrian Jewish writer
Letter (1904-01-27) to Oskar Pollak [tr. Winston (1977)]
(Source)
This passage (in translation) is frequently only partially quote, particularly the final "ice axe" line, making parallel translations difficult. I have tried to give as full quotations as I could find.
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.]
As to myself, my religious reading has long been confined to the moral branch of religion, which is the same in all religions; while in that branch which consists of dogmas, all differ, all have a different set. The former instructs us how to live well and worthily in society; the latter are made to interest our minds in the support of the teachers who inculcate them. Hence for one sermon on a moral subject, you hear ten on the dogmas of the sect.
Thomas Jefferson (1743-1826) American political philosopher, polymath, statesman, US President (1801-09)
Letter (1809-01-11) to Thomas Leiper
(Source)
A person who won’t read has no advantage over one who can’t read.
Mark Twain (1835-1910) American writer [pseud. of Samuel Clemens]
(Spurious)
First attributed to Twain in 1945, but not found in his works. Earliest appearances of the quote date back to 1910, but are unattributed. It's often attributed to Abigail Van Buren (Dear Abby), but she didn't say it until 1966. See here for more information.Variants:
"Who can see the barely perceptible line between the man who can not read at all and the man who does not read at all? The literate who can, but does not, read, and the illiterate who neither does nor can? [Original form.]
"The person who does not read has no advantage over the person who cannot read." ["Dear Abby", 19 Oct 1966]
"The man who doesn't read good books has no advantage over the man who can't read them."
Nathaniel Hawthorne (1804-1864) American writer
(Attributed)
Also attributed to others, including Ernest Hemingway. The reference to Hawthorne can be dated back to Maya Angelou in "The Art of Fiction," Paris Review, #116, Interview with George Plimpton (1990):
Nathaniel Hawthorne says, "Easy reading means damn hard writing."
Per Wikiquote, Angelou put it differently previously, in Conversations With Maya Angelou (1989) [ed. Jeffrey M. Elliot]:
I think it's Alexander Pope who says, "Easy writing is damn hard reading," and vice versa, easy reading is damn hard writing.
Which first clause may refer in turn not to Pope but Richard Brinsley, Clio's Protest, or the Picture Varnished (1771, pub. 1819):
You write with ease, to show your breeding,
But easy writing's curst hard reading.
You read something which you thought only happened to you, and you discover that it happened 100 years ago to Dostoyevsky. This is a very great liberation for the suffering, struggling person, who always thinks that he is alone. This is why art is important. Art would not be important if life were not important, and life is important.
James Baldwin (1924-1987) American novelist, playwright, activist
“An interview with James Baldwin” by Studs Terkel (1961), in Conversations With James Baldwin (1989)
(Source)
Baldwin revisited this theme multiple times.
You think your pain and your heartbreak are unprecedented in the history of the world, but then you read. It was Dostoevsky and Dickens who taught me that the things that tormented me most were the very things that connected me with all the people who were alive, or who had ever been alive. Only if we face these open wounds in ourselves can we understand them in other people. An artist is a sort of emotional or spiritual historian.
[Interview with Jane Howard, Life Magazine (24 May 1963)]
You think your pain and your heartbreak are unprecedented in the history of the world, but then you read. It was books that taught me that the things that tormented me most were the very things that connected me with all the people who were alive, or who had ever been alive.
["James Baldwin Recalls His Childhood," quoting from a television program, New York Times (31 May 1964)]
Some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few to be chewed and digested: that is, some books are to be read only in parts; others to be read, but not curiously; and some few to be read wholly, and with diligence and attention.
Francis Bacon (1561-1626) English philosopher, scientist, author, statesman
“Of Studies,” Essays, No. 50 (1625)
(Source)
If being a parent consists often of passing along chunks of ourselves to unwitting — often unwilling — recipients, then books are, for me, one of the simplest and most sure-fire ways of doing that. I would be most content if my children grew up to be the kind of people who think decorating consists mostly of building enough bookshelves.
Anna Quindlen (b. 1953) American journalist, novelist
Article (1991-08-07), “Public & Private: Enough Bookshelves,” New York Times (Source)
Reprinted in her essay collection Thinking Out Loud (1993).
That was excellently observed, say I, when I read a passage in an author, where his opinion agrees with mine. When we differ, there I pronounce him to be mistaken.
Jonathan Swift (1667-1745) English writer and churchman
“Thoughts on Various Subjects” (1706)
(Source)
In anything fit to be called by the name of reading, the process itself should be absorbing and voluptuous; we should gloat over a book, be rapt clean out of ourselves, and rise from the perusal, our mind filled with the busiest, kaleidoscopic dance of images, incapable of sleep or of continuous thought. The words, if the book be eloquent, should run thenceforward in our ears like the noise of breakers, and the story, if it be a story, repeat itself in a thousand coloured pictures to the eye.
Robert Louis Stevenson (1850-1894) Scottish essayist, novelist, poet
Essay (1882-11), “A Gossip on Romance,” Longman’s Magazine, Vol. 1, No. 1
(Source)
Collected in Memories and Portraits, ch. 15 (1887).
Sydney Smith (1771-1845) English clergyman, essayist, wit Memoir of the Reverend Sydney Smith, by His Daughter, Lady Holland, Vol. 1, ch. 10 (1855)
(Source)
Books, you know, Charles, are like lobster shells. We surround ourselves with ’em, and then we grow out of ’em and leave ’em behind, as evidences of our earlier stages of development.
Dorothy Sayers (1893-1957) English author, translator The Unpleasantness at the Bellona Club, ch. 18 “Picture-cards” [Peter] (1928)
(Source)
There is no surer way to misread any document than to read it literally; in every interpretation we must pass between Scylla and Charybdis; and I certainly do not wish to add to the barrels of ink that have been spent in logging the route. As nearly as we can, we must put ourselves in the place of those who uttered the words, and try to divine how they would have dealt with the unforeseen situation; and, although their words are by far the most decisive evidence of what they would have done, they are by no means final.
Learned Hand (1872-1961) American jurist Guiseppi v. Walling, 144 F.2d 608, 624 (2d Cir. 1944) [concurring]
(Source)
I have not placed reading before praying because I regard it more important, but because, in order to pray aright, we must understand what we are praying for.
Angelina Grimké Weld (1805-1879) American abolitionist, women's rights activist
“Appeal to the Christian Women of the South,” Anti-Slavery Examiner (Sep 1836)
(Source)
Alas! Where is human nature so weak as in a book-store! Speak of the appetite for drink; or of a bon-vivant’s relish for dinner! What are these mere animal throes and ragings compared with those fantasies of taste, of those yearning of the imagination, of those insatiable appetites of intellect, which bewilder a student in a great bookseller’s temptation-hall?
Henry Ward Beecher (1813-1887) American clergyman and orator
Essay (1855), “Book-Stores, Books,” Star Papers, “Experiences of Nature,” ch. 21
(Source)
Originally published in his "STAR" column in the New York Independent," and is dated May 25 without a year given. This essay, separate from the original book, is usually titled "Subtleties of Book Buyers."
I was asking myself these questions, weeping all the while with the most bitter sorrow in my heart, when all at once I heard the sing-song voice of a child in a nearby house. Whether it was the voice of a boy or a girl I cannot say, but again and again it repeated the refrain “Take it and read, take it and read.”
[Dicebam haec et flebam amarissima contritione cordis mei. Et ecce audio vocem de vicina domo cum cantu dicentis et crebro repetentis, quasi pueri an puellae, nescio: “tolle lege, tolle lege.”]
Augustine of Hippo (354-430) Christian church father, philosopher, saint [b. Aurelius Augustinus] Confessions, Book 8, ch. 12 / ¶ 29 (8.12.29) (c. AD 398) [tr. Pine-Coffin (1961)]
(Source)
Augustine writes of being unable to break himself away from his life of carnal sin, until, at this moment, he gets what he deems an inspiration from God to open the Bible at random and, reading Romans 13:13-14, makes his full conversion to Christianity.
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)]
A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,
A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread — and Thou Beside me singing in the Wilderness —
Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow.
Fitzgerald used the same translation for his 4th and 5th ed.
There are at least two close variants of this quatrain (Bodleian 149 and 153). Both introduce the wine, maybe the bread or meat, some verse, and a love interest. In the first variant, in some cases, the setting is in the wilderness which is turned to a virtual Paradise by the accoutrements; in the second case, the other factors turn the writer's mind away from Paradise itself. In the second variant, these items all brought together are valued more highly than the wealth of the Sultan. Some translators blend these together, others break them out in two (or three!) quatrains. While concordances (especially in the 19th Century) draw connections, they sometimes contradict. I have included them all here, for the reader to discern their own differences.
Alternate translations:
Some ruby wine and a diwan of poems,
A crust of bread to keep the breath in one's body, And thou and I alone in a desert, --
Were a lot beyond a Sultan's throne.
[tr. Cowell (1858), # 13]
Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough,
A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse -- and Thou Beside me singing in the Wilderness --
And Wilderness is Paradise enow.
[tr. FitzGerald, 1st ed. (1859), # 11]
Here with a little Bread beneath the Bough,
A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse -- and Thou Beside me singing in the Wilderness --
Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!
[tr. FitzGerald, 2nd Ed (1868), # 12]
In Spring time I love to sit in the meadow with a paramour perfect as a Houri and goodly jar of wine, and though I may be blamed for this, yet hold me lower than a dog if ever I dream of Paradise.
[tr. McCarthy (1888), # 177]
When the hand possesses a loaf of wheaten bread, two measures of wine, and a piece of flesh, when seated with tulip-cheeks in some lonely spot, behold such joy as is not given to all sultans.
[tr. McCarthy (1888), # 398]
Give me a flagon of red wine, a book of verses, a loaf of bread and a little idleness. If with such store I might sit by thy dear side in some lonely place, I should deem myself happier than a king in his kingdom.
[tr. McCarthy (1888), #449]
In the sweet spring a grassy bank I sought
And thither wine and a fair Houri brought; And, though the people called me graceless dog,
Gave not to Paradise another thought!
[tr. Whinfield (1883), # 84]
Give me a skin of wine, a crust of bread,
A pittance bare, a book of verse to read; With thee, love, to share my lowly roof,
I would not take the Sultan's realm instead!
[tr. Whinfield (1883), # 452]
A Flask of Wine, a book, a Loaf of Bread, --
To every Care and Worldly Sorrow dead, I covet not, when thou, oh Love, art near,
The Jeweled Crown upon the Sultan's Head.
[tr. Garner, 1.8 (1888)]
Yes, Loved One, when the Laughing Spring is blowing,
With Thee beside me and the Cup o’erflowing, I pass the day upon this Waving Meadow,
And dream the while, no thought on Heaven bestowing.
[tr. Garner, 1.20 (1888)]
A flask of red wine, and a volume of song, together --
Half a loaf, -- just enough the ravage of Want to tether: Such is my wish -- then, thou in the waste with me --
Oh! sweeter were this than a monarch's crown and feather!
[tr. M. K. (1888)]
In the Springtime, biding with one who is houri-fair,
And a flask of wine, if 't is to be had -- somewhere On the tillage's grassy skirt -- Alack ! though most
May think it a sin, I feel that my heaven is there!
[tr. M. K. (1888)]
A book, a woman, and a flask of wine:
The three make heaven for me; it may be thine Is some sour place of singing cold and bare --
But then, I never said thy heaven was mine.
[tr. Le Gallienne (1897)]
A book, a flask of wine, a crust of bread,
To every care and worldly sorrow dead, I covet not when thou, oh, Love, art near,
The jeweled turban on the sultan's head.
[tr. Garner (1898), # 8]
A gugglet of wine and a book of poesy,
The haf of a loaf of bread and a penny fee, And I in a nook of some ruin seated with thee,
Were better than king on a kingdom's throne to be.
[tr. Payne (1898), # 829]
I desire a little ruby wine and a book of verses,
Just enough to keep me alive, and half a loaf is needful;
And then, that I and thou should sit in a desolate place
Is better than the kingdom of a sultan.
[tr. Heron-Allen (1898), # 149]
If a loaf of wheaten-bread be forthcoming,
a gourd of wine, and a thigh-bone of mutton, and then,
if thou and I be sitting in the wilderness, --
that would be a joy to which no sultan can set bounds.
[tr. Heron-Allen (1898), # 155]
A book of verses underneath the vine, A loaf of bread, a jug of ruby wine,
And thou beside me, resting in the wild, Would make the dreary wilderness divine!
[tr. Roe (1906), # 25]
A skin of red wine, book of poesy. Bread, a half loaf, enough for life give me.
Then sitting in some solitude with thee Were sweeter than the Sultan's empery!
[tr. Thompson (1906), # 560]
If bread you have made from the grain of wheat,
Two maunds of wine, a mutton joint for meat, In some nook sitting with fair Tulip-cheeks,
Not every Sultan hath such joy complete!
[tr. Thompson (1906), # 586]
Give me a scroll of verse, a little wine,
With half a loaf to fill thy needs and mine, And with the desert sand our resting place,
For ne'er a Sultan's kingdom would we pine.
[tr. Talbot (1908), # 149]
Let Fortune but provide me bread of wheat,
A gourd of wine, a bone of mutton sweet, Then in the desert if we twain might sit,
Joys such as ours no Sultan could defeat.
[tr. Talbot (1908), # 155]
If we get but a loaf of wheaten-bread, a gourd of wine
and a leg of mutton.
and if I and thou be sitting in the wilderness, that
were a treat beyond the powers of most sultans.
[tr. Christensen (1927), # 28]
If you have a loaf made from the marrow of wheat,
Of wine two gallons and of lamb a joint,
And if you are sitting in the wilderness with one whose face is beautiful like the moon.
That would be bliss not attainable by a Sultan.
[tr. Rosen (1928), # 320]
If one could find a loaf of grinded wheat,
And with a gourd of wine and chop of meat Retires to ruined haunts with Beloved One,
What king can hope to find such joyous treat?
[tr. Tirtha (1941), # 7.131]
The Word suffices and a book of songs,
A crumb will fill this what to earth belongs; In solitude when I would pore on Tee,
I care no kingdoms, neither thrones nor throngs.
[tr. Tirtha (1941), # 8.131]
Should our day's portion be one mancel loaf,
A haunch of mutton and a gourd of wine
Set for us two alone on the wide plain,
No Sultan's bounty could evoke such joy.
A gourd of red wine and a sheaf of poems --
A bare subsistence, half a loaf, not more --
Supplied us two alone in the free desert:
What Sultan could we envy on his throne?
[tr. Graves & Ali-Shah (1967), # 11-12]
If one may have a loaf of the flower of wheat, a two-maund (jar) of wine, a thigh of mutton, seated with a heart's darling in a ruined place -- that is a pleasure that is not the attainment of any sultan.
[tr. Bowen (1976), # 12a]
If we were seated in a desert place, Where I alone might gaze upon your face,
These simple victuals would our needs suffice: A thigh of mutton in a dish of rice;
A loaf of bread of finest wheaten flour; A flagon tall from which cool wine to pour ...
There, in the day's long leisurely decline, No Sultan's pleasures could compare with mine.
[tr. Bowen (1976), # 12b]
I need a jug of wine and a book of poetry,
Half a loaf for a bite to eat,
Then you and I, seated in a deserted spot,
Will have more wealth than a Sultan's realm.
[tr. Avery/Heath-Stubbs (1979), # 98]
If chance supplied a loaf of white bread,
Two casks of wine and a leg of mutton,
In the corner of a garden with a tulip-cheeked girl,
There'd be enjoyment no Sultan could outdo.
[tr. Avery/Heath-Stubbs (1979), # 234]
In spring if a houri-like sweetheart
Gives me a cup of wine on the edge of a green cornfield,
Though to the vulgar this would be blasphemy,
If I mentioned any other Paradise, I'd be worse than a dog.
[tr. Ememai (1988), # 160]
Ah, would there were a loaf of bread as fare,
A joint of lamb, a jug of vintage rare, And you and I in wilderness encamped --
No Sultan's pleasure could with ours compare.
[tr. Saldi (1991), # 16]
When I was ten, I read fairy tales in secret and would have been ashamed if I had been found doing so. Now that I am fifty, I read them openly. When I became a man I put away childish things, including the fear of childishness and the desire to be very grown up.
C. S. Lewis (1898-1963) English writer, literary scholar, lay theologian [Clive Staples Lewis]
“On Three Ways of Writing for Children,” lecture, Library Association Bournemouth Conference (29 Apr – 2 May 1952)
(Source)
I am really mortified to be told that, in the United States of America, a fact like this can become a subject of enquiry, and of criminal enquiry too, as an offence against religion: that a question about the sale of a book can be carried before the civil magistrate. Is this then our freedom of religion? And are we to have a Censor whose imprimatur shall say what books may be sold, and what we may buy? And who is thus to dogmatise religious opinions for our citizens? Whose foot is to be the measure to which ours are all to be cut or stretched? Is a Priest to be our Inquisitor, or shall a layman, simple as ourselves, set up his reason as the rule for what we are to read, & what we must believe? It is an insult to our citizens to question whether they are rational beings or not; and blasphemy against religion to suppose it cannot stand the test of truth and reason. If M. de Becourt’s book be false in it’s facts, disprove them; if false in it’s reasoning, refute it. but, for god’s sake, let us freely hear both sides, if we chuse.
Thomas Jefferson (1743-1826) American political philosopher, polymath, statesman, US President (1801-09)
Letter (1814-04-19) to Nicolas G. Dufief
(Source)
In literature, as in love, we are astonished at what is chosen by others.
[En littérature comme en amour, on est surpris par les choix des autres.]
André Maurois (1885-1967) French author [b. Émile Salomon Wilhelm Herzog] The Art of Living [Un Art de Vivre], ch. 6 “The Art of Working” (1939) [tr. Whitall (1940)]
(Source)
Book lovers are thought by unbookish people to be gentle and unworldly, and perhaps a few of them are so. But there are others who will lie and scheme and steal to get books as wildly and unconscionably as the dope-taker in pursuit of his drug. They may not want the books to read immediately, or at all; they want them to possess, to range on their shelves, to have at command. They want books as a Turk is thought to want concubines — not to be hastily deflowered, but to be kept at their master’s call, and enjoyed more often in thought than in reality.
