Advice on reading

First of all, I want to emphasize that this topic is a question. And even if I can answer this question, I am afraid that it is only suitable for me and not for you. Regarding reading, there is only one point that can be given to others, that is, don’t listen to what others say, just follow your own nature and use your brain to draw your own conclusions. In any other place, we may be bound by laws and customs, but here we do not need them at all.

How can we learn from this chaos and get the greatest happiness from reading?

How to read a novel?

It seems simple, since books are different-there are differences between novels, biographies, and poems-we should divide the books into categories, and pick out the books he deserves to read from each category. But readers’ expectations of the book are often very different from what the book can give the reader. What we do most often is to open a book half-heartedly and unknown, read a novel to hope it is real, read a poem to hope it is illusory, read biographies and be full of beautiful words, and read history must meet our prejudices. When we read books, only by discarding these preconceptions can we have a commendable beginning. Do not point at the author; stand on his side and become his fellow and complicity. Perhaps the quickest way to get a rough idea of ​​what novelists are doing is not to read novels, but to write them yourself; experience the hardships of manipulating the text yourself. We can think about something that impresses you-for example, there are two people chatting on the street corner, and how you passed by them. There was a tree swaying; the lights were flashing; the conversation between the two people sounded funny, but it made people feel sad. Such a picture, the whole idea, seems to be contained in that moment.

But if you also try it and put the scene to the tip, you will find that this moment has become a fragmented and contradictory impression. Some impressions need us to dilute, while others need to be emphasized; it is written like this, maybe, the emotion that was originally experienced is gone. At this time, throw these pages of unclear and cluttered manuscript papers aside, and read about Defoe, Jane Austin, Hardy, and their great novelists. In this way, you must be more aware of their greatness. Only then can we understand that this not only allows us to see a different person-either Defoe, Jane Austin, Thomas Hada, but also makes us live in a different world.

After reading Robinson Crusoe, we are trekking on a smooth road; everything follows one after another; these things and the order in which they occur are everything. But for Defoe, such a crucial outdoor life and adventure, it was nothing to Jane Austen. In its place are the gossips of the living room and people, and the character of the characters reflected from the gossips, like a mirror. When we get used to the mirroring of this living room and the space between them, we turn to Hardy, and then we feel that the peak circuit has turned. Swarms of swamps surround us, and stars are shining on our heads. What shows us here is the other side of human nature-the darkness that most easily emerges when you are alone, not the light side when you are with us. What matters to us is no longer humans, but nature and destiny. However, despite the diversity of these worlds, each one is in harmony. Because their creators are all careful and prudent, from their own unique perspective, adhere to its rules. Maybe they will make us worry too much, but they are never like two or three writers, they often confuse two kinds of reality in one book, leaving us confused. In this way, after reading the work of one great writer, then reading another-from Jane Austin to Hardy, from Piccok to Trollope, from Scott to Meredith-this is like let People are uprooted and thrown away; thrown from here to there. Reading a novel is a difficult and complicated art. If you want to understand from the novelists, especially the great novelists, what they give, you must have a very keen sense and a very bold imagination.

Why read biographies and memoirs?

However, if you just glance at the various books on the bookshelf, you can know that there are few writers that can be called “great”; there are also few books that can be called art. For example, these biographies or autobiographies, which are side by side with novels and poetry, are nothing more than biographies of celebrities, who write about people who have long been dead and forgotten. However, just because they are not “art”, do we not read them? Or should we read it, but just need us to read it in a different way and with a different purpose? For example, in order to satisfy our own curiosity, like sometimes, after night falls, we pass in front of a large house and see that every house is lit with lights, and the curtains have not been lowered. In all aspects of life drama, we can’t help but stop. At this time, we will be curious about the lives of these people-servants are gossiping, gentlemen are eating dinner, girls are dressing up for parties, and old women by the window are wearing sweaters. Who are these people, what do they do, who is their last name, what is their working status, what are their thoughts, and what kind of experiences do they have?

The biographies and memoirs are answering these questions, and in this way, the lights of all families are illuminated; they show us people’s daily life, their hard work, success and failure, diet love and hate, until they die. Sometimes, under our attention, the house gradually disappeared, the iron fence disappeared, and we came to the sea; we went hunting, sailed, and fought; we stood among the barbarians and soldiers; we participated in greatness Battle. Or, if we were happy to stay in England and London, the scene would also change; the streets became narrower, the house became smaller, the windows became small lattices, the house was crowded, and there was a smell. We saw a poet, Dorn, forced to come out of such a house, because the walls here were too thin to resist the children’s crying. We can follow him and follow the path between the books to Twickenham; take a look at the famous Lady Bedford Park. This is the place where nobles and poets love to go. Then, as the road turns around, we come again Wilton Manor, the mansion built on the hillside, listen to Sidney reading “Acadia” to his sister; then, go to the wetlands and see the famous The unique heron in the romantic story; next, head north again, and follow another Lady Pembroke, Anne Clifford, to see her vast wilderness, or let us rush to the city and see See how Gabriel Harvey was dressed in black velvet and argued with Spencer about poetry, but be careful not to laugh out loud.

Elizabethan London is dark and glorious. There is nothing more interesting than stumbling around here. However, we cannot always stay there. Because Temple and Swift, Harry, and St. John are calling us to move on; it will take us too much time to understand the dispute between them and understand the personality of each of them; wait until we are right They felt annoyed, and we went on, past a pearly lady in black, to Samuel Johnson, to Goldsmith, to Garrick; otherwise, we would cross the strait, Meet Voltaire and Diderot, and Mrs. Du Defang, if we wish; then go back to England and back to Twickennan-some places and some names always appear again and again! ——Mrs. Bedford once owned her own garden here. Later, the Pope also settled here, as well as Strawberry Hill and Walpole’s home. However, Walpole introduced us to many new faces. So many houses are waiting for us to visit, so many doorbells are waiting for us to ring, I’m afraid we don’t know what to do for a while. For example, we came to Miss Belize’s door and were hesitating. At that moment, Thackeray stepped forward; the young lady whom Walpole fell in love with was his friend.

In this way, we just followed a friend to meet another friend, walked from garden to garden, visited a house, and went to another house, and we have already gone from one end of English literature to the other Then, I realized that we are back at this moment, if the moment and the moment that have passed can be so clearly separated. And this can be regarded as a way for us to read biographies and correspondence; we can use this to relight the lights in the old windows; we can see those celebrities who died, their daily lives, and you can imagine, We are so close to them that we can catch their little secrets from time to time while they are unprepared, or take out a play, a poem, and see if it is read in front of the author. what is the difference. Even so, however, new problems will follow. We must ask, to what extent is a book subject to the life of its author-to what extent can we equate this person in life with the author? You know, the text is so sensitive that it is too easy to be influenced by the personality of the author. Then, because of the joy and sorrow that his life brings to us, how much can we keep while we read and how much can we leave it alone? After reading biographies and correspondence, such questions followed one after another, and these questions must be answered by ourselves, because it would be too terrible to have such private questions led by others’ preferences. Already.

However, reading such books can also serve another purpose, not to read texts, not to know celebrities, but to keep our creativity active and trained. Isn’t there an open window on the right hand side of the bookshelf? Set aside the book and see how good the window is! This kind of picture is really refreshing, natural, unconcerned, irrelevant, and never stop-the foal is running in the field, the woman beside the well is pouring water into the bucket, and the donkey hissing. Most of the books in the library are just records of this. Regardless of these fleeting moments, whether they belong to men, women, or donkeys. And any literature, as it grows older, will leave some piles of old paper, with a kind of accent that can no longer be heard, tremblingly tells about those moments that have passed away and life that has been forgotten. However, if you dive into these old paper piles and you can still enjoy it, you will definitely gain a lot, because even if the human life recorded here has been abandoned, it is doomed to be annihilated and the relics left will Amazing.

The joy of reading poetry

But the pile of paper is annoying after all, and we are too lazy to rack our brains and put together the words that Wilkinsons, Banbury, and Maria Allen told us. They lack the talents of artists, they don’t know how to plan and delete complicated things; even if it is their own life, it is difficult to say why; even if it is a good material, they will be distorted in their hands. Most of them can only give us some facts, but if they are just facts, they are far from being novels. In this way, after seeing the so-called works of these half-cradles, we are no longer willing to look for the light and shadow of some characters, but to appreciate the kind of novel, which is more grand, more abstract, and more pure. In this way, an emotion is born in our hearts. It is strong, universal, and does not pay attention to details. Instead, it appears repeatedly with the rhythm. The most natural manifestation of this emotion is poetry; that is, when we are almost ready to write a poem, it is the best time to read it.

West wind, when will you blow?
In order to let drizzle, lick.
What a lovely person, when can I
Hold you in your arms and talk to each other.

Poetry is so infectious and so straightforward. At this moment, poetry completely occupies our hearts and devours all feelings …

But then again, the goal is good, but who can do it for? There is no pursuit, is it because of their own beauty that makes us eager for it? Shouldn’t the pursuit of fun itself be our ultimate goal? Isn’t reading like this? At least, I sometimes think that, until the day of the final judgment, all the great conquerors, barristers, and politicians will be rewarded by God—crowns, honors, and names engraved on monuments; but Seeing us coming with the book in it, the Almighty God will turn his head, and said to Peter with a little jealousy, “Look, these people don’t need my reward. We don’t have what they want here either. They love reading. “