He reads the introduction, and he glances at the first page or two
of the work. He sees nothing but words. The work makes no appeal
to him whatever. He is surrounded by trees, and cannot perceive the
forest. He puts the book away. If Sir Thomas Browne is mentioned, he
will say, "Yes, very fine!" with a feeling of pride that he has at any
rate bought and inspected Sir Thomas Browne. Deep in his heart is a
suspicion that people who get enthusiastic about Sir Thomas Browne
are vain and conceited _poseurs_. After a year or so, when he has
recovered from the discouragement caused by Sir Thomas Browne, he may,
if he is young and hopeful, repeat the experiment with Congreve
or Addison. Same sequel! And so on for perhaps a decade, until his
commerce with the classics finally expires! That, magazines and newish
fiction apart, is the literary history of the average decent person.
And even your case, though you are genuinely preoccupied with thoughts
of literature, bears certain disturbing resemblances to the drab
case of the average person. You do not approach the classics with
gusto--anyhow, not with the same gusto as you would approach a new
novel by a modern author who had taken your fancy. You never murmured
to yourself, when reading Gibbon's _Decline and Fall_ in bed: "Well,
I really must read one more chapter before I go to sleep!" Speaking
generally, the classics do not afford you a pleasure commensurate with
their renown.
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