我一生中的书

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有些书你一直打算读，却可能永远不会读；有些书你本没打算读，却因别人的一句话如获至宝。亨利·米勒在文中写道：“有时你崇拜的作家会将你引向一本被束之高阁许久的书。‘什么？他喜欢那本书？’”读罢此文，我们也可以惊呼：“什么？大作家也有读不进去的书？”

I think it important to stress at the outset2） a psychological fact about the reading of books which is rather neglected in most works on the subject. It is this： many of the books one lives with in one’s mind are books one has never read. Sometimes these take on amazing importance. There are at least three categories of this order3）. The first comprises those books which one has every intention of reading some day but in all probability never will； the second comprises those books which one feels he ought to have read， and which， some at least， he undoubtedly will read before he dies； the third comprises the books one hears about， talks about， reads about， but which one is almost certain never to read because nothing， seemingly， can ever break down the wall of prejudice erected against them.

In the first category are those monumental works， classics mostly， which one is usually ashamed to admit he has never read： tomes4） one nibbles at5） occasionally， only to push them away， more than ever convinced that they are still unreadable. The list varies with the individual. For myself， to give a few outstanding names， they comprise the works of such celebrated authors as Homer， Aristotle， Francis Bacon， Hegel， Rousseau （excepting Emile）， Robert Browning， Santayana6）. In the second category I conclude Arabia Deserta， The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire， The Hundred and Twenty Days of Sodom， Casanova’s Memoirs， Napoleon’s Memoirs， Michelet’s History of the French Revolution. In the third Pepys’ Diary， Tristram Shandy， Wilhelm Meister， The Anatomy of Melancholy， The Red and the Black， Marius the Epicurean， The Education of Henry Adams.

Sometimes a chance reference to an author one has neglected to read or abandoned all thought of ever reading—a passage， say， in the work of an author one admires， or the words of a friend who is also a book lover—is sufficient to make one run for a book， read it with new eyes and claim it as one’s very own. In the main， however， the books one neglects， or deliberately spurns7）， seldom get read. Certain subjects， certain styles， or unfortunate associations connected with the very names of certain books， create a repugnance8） almost insuperable. Nothing on earth， for example， could induce me to tackle anew Spenser9）’s Faery Queen， which I began in college and fortunately dropped because I left that institution in a hurry. Never again will I look at a line of Edmund Burke10）， or Addison11）， or Chaucer12）， though the last—named I think altogether worthy of reading. Racine13） and Corneille14） are two others I doubt if I shall ever look at again， though Corneille intrigues me because of a brilliant essay I read not long ago on Phédre15） in The Clown’s Grail.