VBOOKS THAT CAPTIVATE
If thought unlock her mysteries,If friendship on me smile,I walk in marble galleries,I talk with kings the while.Emerson.
If thought unlock her mysteries,If friendship on me smile,I walk in marble galleries,I talk with kings the while.Emerson.
If thought unlock her mysteries,If friendship on me smile,I walk in marble galleries,I talk with kings the while.Emerson.
If thought unlock her mysteries,
If friendship on me smile,
I walk in marble galleries,
I talk with kings the while.
Emerson.
THE world of books is full of friendly voices. Where is the book-lover who has not at times felt like a sulky guest in genial, well-disposed company? Many authors who await our attentions have no other desire than to entertain, to please, to delight, ‘All authors are not preachers.’ I confess, however, that for my part I like to be ‘preached at.’ But my preacher must be of the gentle, captivating type—one who employs the beckoning finger. I am willing enough to be led, but immediately adopt a proverbial stubbornness at the touch of a rod. This reminds me of a certain book-lover who declares that he is only influenced by authors who preach from his own pulpit. That is his way of saying that the authors who captivate him are the authors who touch a responsive chord in his nature, who view affairs from his standpoint.
How greatly tastes differ! I know of many persons, book-lovers of a kind, who must have what they are pleased to call original books. But where, I ask, are such books to be found? Is it not true that there is no such thing as original thought? A writer expresses his views with regard to this, that, or the other subject, only to find that the same observations have been made before, or were made at the same moment by some other person in some other quarter of the globe. ‘Ideas march along in extended order. They are not isolated discoveries made by specially brilliant individuals. Their influence is in the air. It is felt by numbers of thinkers at the same time. Often it is by no means the greatest of them who first announces that he has felt it.’
Thus we come to see that style is the immortal thing in literature. The style that echoes a charming personality is ever fresh. Who can deny that many an author has earned popularity by expressing in a winsome manner thoughts that are common to every thinking mind? I confess that I, as in the case of many others, am not so anxious to come across fresh and startling views as I am to find writers who bring fresh light to bear upon the old problems. I would rather dwell upon the descriptive passages quoted elsewhere in these pages than keep companywith a mental acrobat. Too often one finds that the so-termed original author is a mere trickster, who does not hesitate to employ any means that promise to produce a startling effect. I am of the same opinion as the book-lover who declares that ‘any merry-andrew can blow down the wrong end of a trumpet.’
But it does not follow that the style that captivates me will captivate my neighbour. I am for a ‘mellow style’ in letters, for delicate phrasing—the polite manner. My neighbour may prefer ‘the style that has a sting in it.’ I am acquainted with a book-lover who confesses that he has no objection to being driven by an author. He likes to feel that an author has a firm hand upon the reins, and will use a whip if the need arises. Gentle, conciliatory authors bore this friend of mine. Others are for whimsical authors; others again are for writers who ‘play’ with their readers’ emotions, now drawing forth tears, now causing laughter. A few are for grave and solemn teachers. Many are for the authors whose only ambition is to entertain. There is no limit to the world’s requirements. But, happily, ‘of the making of books there is no end.’ We need have no fear of the supply running short, or ofour own peculiar needs going unsupplied. ‘Books,’ says Langford, ‘are always with us, and always ready to respond to our wants.’ ‘As you grow ready for it,’ adds another, ‘somehow or other you will find what is needful for you in a book.’
A wise man will select his book with the utmost care. ‘He will not wish to class them all under the sacred name of friends.’ For my own part, I confess that I like to turn at times to authors of ‘humbler sorts.’ I like to dip into the volumes which booksellers label ‘Remainders.’ How frequently one finds in such books the very features that captivate—the style and matter that immediately touch a responsive chord in one’s temperament! Many a book labelled ‘Remainder’ deserves our warmest gratitude. ‘Learning,’ says Fuller, ‘has gained most by those books by which the printers have lost.’
But it must not be supposed that I crave for ‘new’ books. I beg leave to be of the same opinion as Lowell, who says in hisFables for Critics: ‘Reading new books is like eating new bread. One can bear it at first, but by gradual steps he is brought to death’s door of a mental dyspepsy.’
The truth is, no hard-and-fast rule can be set down with regard to the books that captivate. But it is, I fancy, pretty safe to affirmthat the books that please us most are the books that reflect our own thoughts and feelings. There has been a ‘run’ of late upon authors who are wise enough to recognize that the majority of persons are more or less simple and unaffected at heart, nursing their pet aspiration as a child nurses a beloved toy. For my own part, I desire to retain a certain youthfulness of heart and mind. I am, therefore, willing enough to confess that the books that captivated me in early life are the books that captivate me still. We ‘grown-ups’ make a brave outward show, but at the back of it there is still the old craving for a friendly hand, a kindly word, a sympathetic friend.
And when it comes to the question of fiction, I confess that my own liking is for books that introduce pleasing characters. I have no desire to meet again in novels the type of individual who glares at me from the ‘police columns’ of the daily press. Murderers, thieves, and adulterers are not to my mind less unpleasant because they happened to occupy a ‘romantic platform.’ Give me, I pray, congenial company. And if, as some declare, we must needs have all types represented, then let the artist who draws them employ the touch that convinces and yet spares. I do not desire to see black laid upon black. Todwell unduly in fiction upon sin and sinners is neither instructive nor entertaining, and it is, as inferred, a poor sort of artist whose pictures are all shade.
I beg leave to be of the company of book-lovers who prefer a pleasant flavour to their fiction, and, happily, we are well supplied. ‘Bookland’ is rich in winsome personalities, both as regards authors and their creations. When we speak of the books that captivate, how often we have in mind the charming persons who in the working out of this, that, or the other story played so noble and inspiring a part!