You may say that
I am preaching a sermon. The fact is, I am. My mood is a severely
moral mood. For when I reflect upon the difference between what
books have to offer and what even relatively earnest readers take the
trouble to accept from them, I am appalled (or should be appalled, did
I not know that the world is moving) by the sheer inefficiency, the
bland, complacent failure of the earnest reader. I am like yourself,
the spectacle of inefficiency rouses my holy ire.
Before you begin upon another masterpiece, set out in a row the
masterpieces which you are proud of having read during the past year.
Take the first on the list, that book which you perused in all the
zeal of your New Year resolutions for systematic study. Examine the
compartments of your mind. Search for the ideas and emotions which you
have garnered from that book. Think, and recollect when last something
from that book recurred to your memory apropos of your own daily
commerce with humanity. Is it history--when did it throw a light for
you on modern politics? Is it science--when did it show you order in
apparent disorder, and help you to put two and two together into an
inseparable four? Is it ethics--when did it influence your conduct in
a twopenny-halfpenny affair between man and man? Is it a novel--when
did it help you to "understand all and forgive all"? Is it
poetry--when was it a magnifying glass to disclose beauty to you, or
a fire to warm your cooling faith? If you can answer these questions
satisfactorily, your stocktaking as regards the fruit of your traffic
with that book may be reckoned satisfactory.
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