This book gives me pleasure." And then after an interval,
perhaps after half a lifetime, something mysterious happens to his
mental sight. He picks up the book again, and sees a new and profound
significance in every sentence, and he says: "I was perfectly blind
to this book before." Yet he is no cleverer than he used to be. Only
something has happened to him. Let a gold watch be discovered by a
supposititious man who has never heard of watches. He has a sense of
beauty. He admires the watch, and takes pleasure in it. He says:
"This is a beautiful piece of bric-a-brac; I fully appreciate this
delightful trinket." Then imagine his feelings when someone comes
along with the key; imagine the light flooding his brain. Similar
incidents occur in the eventful life of the constant reader. He has no
key, and never suspects that there exists such a thing as a key. That
is what I call a choice absolutely bad.
The choice is relatively bad when, spreading over a number of books,
it pursues no order, and thus results in a muddle of faint impressions
each blurring the rest. Books must be allowed to help one another;
they must be skilfully called in to each other's aid. And that this
may be accomplished some guiding principle is necessary.
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