Many people, if not most, look on literary taste as an elegant
accomplishment, by acquiring which they will complete themselves, and
make themselves finally fit as members of a correct society. They are
secretly ashamed of their ignorance of literature, in the same way
as they would be ashamed of their ignorance of etiquette at a high
entertainment, or of their inability to ride a horse if suddenly
called upon to do so. There are certain things that a man ought to
know, or to know about, and literature is one of them: such is their
idea. They have learnt to dress themselves with propriety, and to
behave with propriety on all occasions; they are fairly "up" in the
questions of the day; by industry and enterprise they are succeeding
in their vocations; it behoves them, then, not to forget that
an acquaintance with literature is an indispensable part of a
self-respecting man's personal baggage. Painting doesn't matter; music
doesn't matter very much. But "everyone is supposed to know" about
literature. Then, literature is such a charming distraction! Literary
taste thus serves two purposes: as a certificate of correct culture
and as a private pastime. A young professor of mathematics, immense
at mathematics and games, dangerous at chess, capable of Haydn on the
violin, once said to me, after listening to some chat on books, "Yes,
I must take up literature.
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