How Should One Read a Book?

by Virginia Woolf (1882-1941) from The Second Common Reader

Born in England， Virginia Woolf was the daughter of Leslie Stephen， a well-known scholar. She was educated primarily at home and attributed her love of reading to the early and complete access she was given to her father‘s library. With her husband， Leonard Woolf， she founded the Hogarth Press and became known as member of the Bloomsbury group of intellectuals， which included economist John Maynard Keynes， biographer Lytton Strachey， novelist E. M. Forster， and art historian Clive Bell. Although she was a central figure in London literary life， Woolf often saw herself as isolated from the mains stream because she was a woman. Woolf is best known for her experimental， modernist novels， including Mrs. Dalloway(1925) and To the Lighthouse(1927) which are widely appreciated for her breakthrough into a new mode and technique——the stream of consciousness. In her diary and critical essays she has much to say about women and fiction. Her 1929 book A Room of One’s Own documents her desire for women to take their rightful place in literary history and as an essayist she has occupied a high place in 20th century literature. The common Reader (1925 first series; 1932 second series) has acquired classic status. She also wrote short stories and biographies. “Professions for Women” taken from The collected Essays Vol 2. is originally a paper Woolf read to the Women‘s Service League， an organization for professional women in London.

In the first place， I want to emphasize the note of interrogation at the end of my title. Even if I could answer the question for myself， the answer would apply only to me and not to you. The only advice， indeed， that one person can give another about reading is to take no advice， to follow your own instincts， to use your own reason， to come to your own conclusions. If this is agreed between us， then I feel at liberty to put forward a few ideas and suggestions because you will not allow them to fetter that independence which is the most important quality that a reader can possess. After all， what laws can be laid down about books? The battle of Waterloo was certainly fought on a certain day; but is Hamlet a better play than Lear? Nobody can say. Each must decide that question for himself. To admit authorities， however heavily furred and gowned， into our libraries and let them tell us how to read， what to read， what value to place on what we read， is to destroy the spirit of freedom which is the breath of those sanctuaries. Everywhere else we may be bound by laws and conventions—there we have none.

But to enjoy freedom， if the platitude is pardonable， we have of course to control ourselves. We must not squander our powers， helplessly and ignorantly， squirting half the house in order to water a single rose-bush; we must train them， exactly and powerfully， here on the very spot. This， it may be， is one of the first difficulties that faces us in a library. What is “the very spot”? There may well seem to be nothing but a conglomeration and huddle of confusion. Poems and novels， histories and memoirs， dictionaries and blue-books; books written in all languages by men and women of all tempers， races， and ages jostle each other on the shelf. And outside the donkey brays， the women gossip at the pump， the colts gallop across the fields. Where are we to begin? How are we to bring order into this multitudinous chaos and get the deepest and widest pleasure from what we read?

It is simple enough to say that since books have classes——fiction， biography， poetry——we should separate them and take from each what it is right that each should give us. Yet few people ask from books what books can give us. Most commonly we come to books with blurred and divided minds， asking of fiction that it shall be true， of poetry that it shall be false， of biography that it shall be flattering， of history that it shall enforce our own prejudices. If we could banish all such preconceptions when we read， that would be an admirable beginning. Do not dictate to your author; try to become him. Be his fellow-worker and accomplice. If you hang back， and reserve and criticize at first， you are preventing yourself from getting the fullest possible value from what you read. But if you open your mind as widely as possible， the signs and hints of almost imperceptible fineness， from the twist and turn of the first sentences， will bring you into the presence of a human being unlike any other. Steep yourself in this， acquaint yourself with this， and soon you will find that your author is giving you， or attempting to give you， something far more definite. The thirty-two chapters of a novel—if we consider how to read a novel first——are an attempt to make something as formed and controlled as a building： but words are more impalpable than bricks; reading is a longer and more complicated process than seeing. Perhaps the quickest way to understand the elements of what a novelist is doing is not to read， but to write; to make your own experiment with the dangers and difficulties of words. Recall， then， some event that has left a distinct impression on you—how at the corner of the street， perhaps， you passed two people talking. A tree shook; an electric light danced; the tone of the talk was comic， but also tragic; a whole vision; an entire conception， seemed contained in that moment.

But when you attempt to reconstruct it in words， you will find that it breaks into a thousand conflicting impressions. Some must be subdued; others emphasized; in the process you will lose， probably， all grasp upon the emotion itself. Then turn from your blurred and littered pages to the opening pages of some great novelist—Defoe， Jane Austen， or Hardy. Now you will be better able to appreciate their mastery. It is not merely that we are in the presence of a different person—Defoe， Jane Austen， or Thomas Hardy—but that we are living in a different world. Here， in Robinson Crusoe， we are trudging a plain high road; one thing happens after another; the fact and the order of the fact is enough. But if the open air and adventure mean everything to Defoe they mean nothing to Jane Austen. Hers is the drawing-room， and people talking， and by the many mirrors of their talk revealing their characters. And if， when we have accustomed ourselves to the drawing-room and its reflections， we turn to Hardy， we are once more spun around. The other side of the mind is now exposed—the dark side that comes uppermost in solitude， not the light side that shows in company. Our relations are not towards people， but towards Nature and destiny. Yet different as these worlds are， each is consistent with itself. The maker of each is careful to observe the laws of his own perspective， and however great a strain they may put upon us they will never confuse us， as lesser writers so frequently do， by introducing two different kinds of reality into the same book. Thus to go from one great novelist to another—from Jane Austen to Hardy， from Peacock to Trollope， from Scott to Meredith—is to be wrenched and uprooted; to be thrown this way and then that. To read a novel is a difficult and complex art. You must be capable not only of great finesse of perception， but of great boldness of imagination if you are going to make use of all that the novelist—the great artist—gives you.

* * * *

“We have only to compare”—with those words the cat is out of the bag， and the true complexity of reading is admitted. The first process， to receive impressions with the utmost understanding， is only half the process of reading; it must be completed， if we are to get the whole pleasure from a book， by another. We must pass judgment upon these multitudinous impressions; we must make of these fleeting shapes one that is hard and lasting. But not directly. Wait for the dust of reading to settle; for the conflict and the questioning to die down; walk， talk， pull the dead petals from a rose， or fall asleep. Then suddenly without our willing it， for it is thus that Nature undertakes these transitions， the book will return， but differently. It will float to the top of the mind as a whole. And the book as a whole is different from the book received currently in separate phrases. Details now fit themselves into their places. We see the shape from start to finish; it is a barn， a pig-sty， or a cathedral. Now then we can compare book with book as we compare building with building. But this act of comparison means that our attitude has changed; we are no longer the friends of the writer， but his judges; and just as we cannot be too sympathetic as friends， so as judges we cannot be too severe. Are they not criminals， books that have wasted our time and sympathy; are they not the most insidious enemies of society， corrupters， defilers， the writers of false books， faked books， books that fill the air with decay and disease? Let us then be severe in our judgments; let us compare each book with the greatest of its kind. There they hang in the mind the shapes of the books we have read solidified by the judgments we have passed on them—Robinson Crusoe， Emma， The Return of the Native. Compare the novels with these—even the latest and least of novels has a right to be judged with the best. And so with poetry—when the intoxication of rhythm has died down and the splendour of words has faded a visionary shape will return to us and this must be compared with Lear， with Phedre， with The Prelude; or if not with these， with whatever is the best or seems to us to be the best in its own kind. And we may be sure that the newness of new poetry and fiction is its most superficial quality and that we have only to alter slightly， not to recast， the standards by which we have judged the old.

It would be foolish， then， to pretend that the second part of reading， to judge， to compare， is as simple as the first—to open the mind wide to the fast flocking of innumerable impressions. To continue reading without the book before you， To hold one shadow-shape against another， to have read widely enough and with enough understanding to make such comparisons alive and illuminating—that is difficult; it is still more difficult to press further and to say， “Not only is the book of this sort， but it is of this value; here it fails; here it succeeds; this is bad; that is good.” To carry out this part of a reader‘s duty needs such imagination， insight， and learning that it is hard to conceive any one mind sufficiently endowed; impossible for the most self-confident to find more than the seeds of such powers in himself. Would it not be wiser， then， to remit this part of reading and to allow the critics， the gowned and furred authorities of the library， to decide the question of the book’s absolute value for us? Yet how impossible! We may stress the value of sympathy; we may try to sink our own identity as we read. But we know that we cannot sympathise wholly or immerse ourselves wholly; there is always a demon in us who whispers， “I hate， I love，” and we cannot silence him. Indeed， it is precisely because we hate and we love that our relation with the poets and novelists is so intimate that we find the presence of another person intolerable. And even if the results are abhorrent and our judgments are wrong， still our taste， the nerve of sensation that sends shocks through us， is our chief illuminating; we learn through feeling; we cannot suppress our own idiosyncrasy without impoverishing it. But as time goes on perhaps we can train our taste; perhaps we can make it submit to some control. When it has fed greedily and lavishly upon books of all sorts—poetry， fiction， history， biography—and has stopped reading and looked for long spaces upon the variety， the incongruity of the living world， we shall find that it is changing a little; it is not so greedy， it is more reflective. It will begin to bring us not merely judgments on particular books， but it will tell us that there is a quality common to certain books. Listen， it will say， what shall we call this? And it will read us perhaps Lear and then perhaps Agamenon in order to bring out that common quality. Thus， with our taste to guide us， we shall venture beyond the particular book in search of qualities that group books together; we shall give them names and thus frame a rule that brings order into our perceptions. We shall gain a further and a rarer pleasure from that discrimination. But as a rule only lives when it is perpetually broken by contact with the books themselves—nothing is easier and more stultifying than to make rules which exist out touch with facts， in a vacuum—now at least， in order to steady ourselves in this difficult attempt， it may be well to turn to the very rare writers who are able to enlighten us upon literature as an art. Coleridge and Dryden and Johnson， in their considered criticism， the poets and novelists themselves in their considered sayings are often surprisingly relevant; they light up and solidity the vague ideas that have been tumbling in the misty depths of our minds. But they are only able to help us if we come to them laden with questions and suggestions won honestly in the course of our own reading. They can do nothing for us if we herd ourselves under their authority and lie down like sheep in the shade of a hedge. We can only understand their ruling when it comes in conflict with our own and vanquishes it.

If this is so， if to read a book as it should be read calls for the rarest qualities of imagination， insight， and judgment， you may perhaps， conclude that literature is a very complex art and that it is unlikely that we shall be able， even after a lifetime of reading， to make any valuable contribution to its criticism. We must remain readers; we shall not put on the further glory that belongs to those rare beings who are also critics. But still we have our responsibilities as readers and even our importance. The standards we raise and the judgments we pass steal into the air and become part of the atmosphere which writers breathe as they work. An influence is created which tells upon them even if it never finds its way into print. And that influence， if it were well instructed， vigorous and individual and sincere， might be of great value now when criticism is necessarily in abeyance; when books pass in review like the procession of animals in a shooting gallery， and the critic has only one second in which to load and aim and shoot and may well be pardoned if he mistakes rabbits for tigers， eagles for bar-door fowls， or misses altogether and wastes his shot upon some peaceful sow grazing in a further field. If behind the erratic gunfire of the press the author felt that that there was another kind of criticism， the opinion of people reading for the love of reading， slowly and unprofessionally， and judging with great sympathy and yet with great severity， might this not improve the quality of his work? And if by our means books were to become stronger， richer， and more varied， that would be an end worth reaching.

Yet who reads to bring about an end however desirable? Are there not some pursuits that we practice because they are good in themselves， and some pleasures that are final? And is not this among them? I have sometimes dreamt， at least， that when the Day of Judgment dawns and the great conquerors and lawyers and statesmen come to receive their rewards—their crowns， their laurels， their names carved indelibly upon imperishable marble—the Almighty will turn to Peter and will say， not without a certain envy when He sees us coming with our books under our arms， “Look， these need no reward. We have nothing to give them here. They have loved reading.”

Questions for Comprehension and Consideration：

1. The title of the essay gives a sense of offering advice on reading and the author begins her essay by saying “In the first place， I want to emphasize the note of interrogation at the end of my title.” Why does the author start her essay in this way and what does she really want to point out in her first paragraph which serves as her starting point when she offers ideas and suggestions on reading.

2. How do you understand the author‘s idea of “Do not dictate to your author; try to become him. Be his fellow-worker and accomplice” in paragraph 3. How does your reading experience agree or disagree with the author’s advice?

3. Virginia Woolf says “the quickest way to understand the elements of what a novelist is doing is not to read， but to write;” and she also gives an example to support it. What do you think of the example? Have you ever had such experience of “experimenting with dangers and difficulties of words” ? If you have how do you comment your experience?

4. The author mentions three writers in paragraph 4 and points out that although they depict things totally different they share one same important element. What is it? Read at least one novel of each writer mentioned and try to understand the different worlds the authors created and see whether you agree to the comment Virginia Woolf made or not.

5. What is the true complexity of reading and what are the reading processes Virginia Woolf depicts? How do the processes agree or disagree to your reading experience?

6. In the difficult process of reading the author advises us to read some very rare writers who are able to enlighten us upon literature of art. To what extent and on what circumstance they are able to help us?

7. In what sense does Virginia Woolf think that common readers have responsibilities and importance in raising the standards and the judgment of reading?

8. How do you feel the author‘s rhetoric question “Are there not some pursuits that we practice because they are good in themselves， … and is not this (reading) among them”? Write a passage with concrete examples to show your true understanding of it.

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注釋?zhuān)?/p>

the battle of Waterloo Waterloo is a town in Belgium， the place where Napoleon Bonaparte(1769—1821) and his army was totally defeated.

Thomas Love Peacock (1785——1866)，British novelist and poet.

Anthony Trollope (1815—82)， British novelist.

George Meredith(1828——1909)，British novelist and poet.

Phedre French tragic poet Jean Racine‘s(1639—1699) works.

The Prelude British poet William Wordsworth‘s(1770—1850) long poem.

Agamenon The ancient Greece great tragic poet Aischulos‘(520 BC—456BC) works.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge(1772—1834) British romantic poet.

John Dryden(1631—1700) British poet and critic.

Samuel Johnson(1709—1784) British writer.

Peter one of the twelve disciple of Jesus Christ.

應(yīng)該怎樣讀書(shū)

弗吉尼亞。伍爾夫

首先我要特別提醒讀者注意本文標(biāo)題后面的問(wèn)號(hào)，即便我能夠回答這個(gè)問(wèn)題，答案或許也只適合我自己而并不適合你。其實(shí)，指點(diǎn)別人怎樣讀書(shū)的唯一建議，就是別聽(tīng)從任何指點(diǎn)。遵循自己的直覺(jué)、運(yùn)用自己的判斷，去得出自己的結(jié)論。如果我們對(duì)此有共識(shí)，我就可以無(wú)拘束地提出一些看法和建議，因?yàn)檫@些看法和建議不至于會(huì)禁錮你的獨(dú)立見(jiàn)解。而獨(dú)立見(jiàn)解，正是讀者應(yīng)具備的最重要的品質(zhì)。那么，關(guān)于讀書(shū)，會(huì)有些什么規(guī)則呢?滑鐵盧之戰(zhàn)無(wú)疑是發(fā)生在某特定一天中的一場(chǎng)戰(zhàn)役;《哈姆雷特》一劇是否就一定比《李爾王》更好呢?這問(wèn)題想必很難回答，不同的讀者會(huì)有不同的見(jiàn)解。如果讓權(quán)威之說(shuō)占據(jù)我們的圖書(shū)領(lǐng)域，無(wú)論它們多堂皇、多嚴(yán)實(shí)，讓它們指點(diǎn)我們?cè)趺醋x、讀什么和對(duì)所讀之書(shū)做出評(píng)價(jià)，都無(wú)疑破壞了書(shū)之魂中所蘊(yùn)涵的自由與開(kāi)放精神。我們似乎在任何方面都有習(xí)俗和規(guī)范，惟獨(dú)在讀書(shū)方面沒(méi)有。

要真正享受自由(恕我用這一陳詞)，就必須要有自我約束。我們不能徒勞而無(wú)益地濫用自己的精力和才智，就像為給一株玫瑰澆水而噴灑了半個(gè)花棚一樣。我們應(yīng)當(dāng)適宜而扎實(shí)地善待自己的精力和才智，現(xiàn)在就立馬開(kāi)始。這也許是我們?cè)趫D書(shū)館首先面臨的困難。何為“立馬開(kāi)始”?我們面對(duì)的似乎是龐雜繁紛的堆砌：詩(shī)歌、小說(shuō)、歷史、傳記、詞典、藍(lán)皮書(shū);不同種族不同年代的男女用不同語(yǔ)言寫(xiě)就的不同品位的書(shū);它們一本本緊靠著排列在書(shū)架上。而院外，驢子在咴咴地嘶叫，女人在水井邊嘰喳地閑聊，小馬駒在田野上自由地歡跳。我們從哪入手呢?我們?cè)趺床拍軓募姺钡碾s亂中理出頭緒，進(jìn)而從我們的所讀中獲取最深最廣的歡愉呢?

無(wú)庸諱言，書(shū)籍有類(lèi)別之分，比如小說(shuō)，傳記，詩(shī)歌等等。我們應(yīng)該從各種不同類(lèi)別的圖書(shū)中獲取不同的營(yíng)養(yǎng)。然而，事實(shí)上，只有少數(shù)人能正確對(duì)待書(shū)籍，從中吸取其所能給予的一切。我們常常帶著模糊而矛盾的觀點(diǎn)來(lái) ，要求小說(shuō)該真實(shí)，詩(shī)歌應(yīng)該不真實(shí)，傳記必須充滿溢美之詞，歷史得強(qiáng)化我們固有的觀念。閱讀時(shí)，如果我們能摒棄這些偏見(jiàn)，便是一個(gè)好的開(kāi)端。不要強(qiáng)作者所難，而應(yīng)與作者融為一體，作他的同路人和隨行者。倘若你未開(kāi)卷便先行猶豫退縮，說(shuō)三道四，你絕不可能從閱讀中最大限度地獲取有用價(jià)值。但是，字里行間不易察覺(jué)的精妙之處，就為你洞開(kāi)了一個(gè)別人難以領(lǐng)略的天地。沉浸其中，仔細(xì)玩味，不久，你會(huì)發(fā)現(xiàn)，作者給予你的，或試圖給予你的，絕非某個(gè)確定意義。一部小說(shuō)的三十二個(gè)章節(jié)——如果我們先來(lái)討論怎么閱讀小說(shuō)的話——猶如建筑的構(gòu)架，但詞匯比磚頭令人更難捉摸。閱讀比之于觀看，當(dāng)然是個(gè)更為長(zhǎng)久而復(fù)雜的過(guò)程。也許，最為快界地領(lǐng)略小說(shuō)家工作的原理的方法，不是讀，而是寫(xiě);去冒險(xiǎn)與詞匯打交道?；貞浺幌履硞€(gè)曾給你留下獨(dú)特印象的事件：街角處你碰到兩個(gè)人正在交談，當(dāng)時(shí)周?chē)膱?chǎng)景是，樹(shù)在隨風(fēng)擺動(dòng);街燈燈光搖曳不定;說(shuō)話人聲調(diào)悲喜交集;那一刻你感受到的情景全然融合在一起。

可是，當(dāng)你試圖用語(yǔ)言來(lái)再現(xiàn)這一場(chǎng)景時(shí)，它卻支離成上千個(gè)抵觸的印象，有些得略述，有些得加強(qiáng)。就在你訴諸文字的當(dāng)兒，當(dāng)初的感受已蕩然無(wú)存。拋開(kāi)詞不達(dá)意的支離碎片吧，去打開(kāi)大師們的名著吧，比如笛福，簡(jiǎn)。奧斯丁，哈代。這時(shí)，你當(dāng)能更好地領(lǐng)會(huì)他們的精妙。我們不只是站在不同的大師面前——笛福，簡(jiǎn)。奧斯丁，或者托馬斯。哈代——實(shí)際上我們是置身于完全不同的世界。在《魯賓遜漂流記》中，我們跋涉于久遠(yuǎn)的征途，一個(gè)事件接著一個(gè)事件發(fā)生，事件與事件之間順序就足以構(gòu)成其巨制。如果說(shuō)戶外和冒險(xiǎn)之于笛福是大顯身手的領(lǐng)地，那么，對(duì)于簡(jiǎn)。奧斯丁就無(wú)關(guān)緊要了。奧斯丁的世界是客廳，她通過(guò)活動(dòng)于客廳里的任務(wù)的對(duì)話，反映人物性格。習(xí)慣了奧斯丁的客廳和通過(guò)客廳所反映的意向以后，我們?cè)俎D(zhuǎn)向哈代，腦袋似乎有一次發(fā)暈了。我們置身于荒野之中，星星在我們頭上閃爍。在這里，人類(lèi)靈魂的另一面——孤寂中迸發(fā)的黑暗面，而不是處于凡世塵囂時(shí)所表露的光明面——被充分解剖。這里展示的不是人與人的關(guān)系，而是人與自然和命運(yùn)的關(guān)系。三位作家描述了三個(gè)不同的世界，他們各自的世界是個(gè)連貫一致的整體。他們謹(jǐn)慎地遵循著各自觀察事物、描述事物的法則。無(wú)論作家傾向性多大，讀者不會(huì)在其中迷失方向，不至于像讀某些不在行的作者的作品那樣，在同一本書(shū)里看到兩個(gè)截然不同的現(xiàn)實(shí)。因此，閱讀一個(gè)個(gè)偉大小說(shuō)家——從簡(jiǎn)。奧斯丁到哈代，從皮科克到特羅洛普，從司各脫到梅瑞迪思——你簡(jiǎn)直就如翻江倒海，被一會(huì)兒扔到這里，一會(huì)兒拋向那邊。讀小說(shuō)是一門(mén)艱難而復(fù)雜的藝術(shù)。要想利用小說(shuō)家——偉大的藝術(shù)家——給予的一切，你不僅的具備洞察的策略，你還得具有勇敢的想象。

“我們只要比較一下，”，事情就很清楚，閱讀的奧秘就在于此。以盡可能的理解去感受，這只是閱讀的前一半過(guò)程，如果想獲得一本書(shū)的全部愉悅，還得完成另一個(gè)過(guò)程，即對(duì)各種感受進(jìn)行梳理和鑒別;把變幻不定的印象固化為明確和堅(jiān)實(shí)的感受。但這不必操之過(guò)急，應(yīng)靜待閱讀的“塵埃落定”，你的困惑和質(zhì)疑已經(jīng)沉淀之后;出去走走，和朋友聊聊，揀去玫瑰花葉上的枯瓣，或者上床睡一覺(jué)。就這樣，不經(jīng)意間，造化之神在我們?nèi)徊恢型瓿闪怂鼉?nèi)化轉(zhuǎn)變的過(guò)程，書(shū)重又給我們帶來(lái)全新的意義。它以其完整的意義浮現(xiàn)在我們心際。而完整地領(lǐng)會(huì)全書(shū)，和只領(lǐng)會(huì)它的片言只語(yǔ)，是不可同日而語(yǔ)的。書(shū)中的細(xì)節(jié)已各得其所，我們從頭到尾看清了它的整體形象，正如谷倉(cāng)、豬圈或教堂?，F(xiàn)在我們就可以在書(shū)與書(shū)之間進(jìn)行比較了，就像比較不同的建筑一樣。這比較意味著我們的態(tài)度起了變化，我們不再是作者的朋友，而是他的審判者;正如作朋友我們不能不充滿友情一樣，作審判者我們就不能不嚴(yán)厲了。那些耗費(fèi)我們時(shí)間和情感的書(shū)，其作者難道不能被看作是罪犯嗎?那些充滿謬誤、捏造、腐朽與弊病的書(shū)，其作者難道不是社會(huì)最陰險(xiǎn)的敵人，不是腐化者和墮落者嗎?我們必須做出嚴(yán)厲裁判;我們把每本書(shū)都與其同類(lèi)中最杰出的作品來(lái)做對(duì)比。這類(lèi)作品的特點(diǎn)我們已經(jīng)了解，我們對(duì)它們的裁決更加深了這種了解，比如〈魯濱孫漂流記〉、〈愛(ài)瑪〉與〈還鄉(xiāng)〉等。把你讀到的小說(shuō)與它們相比——即便最新和最次的小說(shuō)，也都應(yīng)該與這些最杰出的小說(shuō)進(jìn)行對(duì)比評(píng)判。詩(shī)歌同樣如此。當(dāng)令人陶醉的韻律被淡忘，當(dāng)詩(shī)中詞語(yǔ)的美妙意象已經(jīng)消失，一種視覺(jué)形象會(huì)出現(xiàn)在我們的腦際，不妨把它與〈李爾王〉、〈費(fèi)德?tīng)枴岛汀葱蚯迪啾?，即使不與它們相比，也要與別的最好的，或者我們認(rèn)為最好的同類(lèi)作品相比?？梢钥隙ǖ氖?，新創(chuàng)作的詩(shī)歌和小說(shuō)的新穎之處，就在于它們的膚淺，我們無(wú)須完全改變?cè)u(píng)判過(guò)去作品的那些標(biāo)準(zhǔn)，只要稍做變動(dòng)即可。

如果認(rèn)為閱讀的第二個(gè)階段，即評(píng)判和比較階段(整理那一涌而至的眾多印象)，與第一個(gè)階段一樣簡(jiǎn)單，那是不明智的。擱下手中的書(shū)繼續(xù)閱讀，心中對(duì)種種意象進(jìn)行比較，同時(shí)還要廣泛閱讀、充分領(lǐng)悟，以確保這樣的比較能形象而富有意義——這無(wú)疑是困難的。如果再加上這樣的要求，那就難上加難了：“不僅這類(lèi)書(shū)如此，這種審視也很普遍;這里處理不夠妥當(dāng);這里很成功;這地方是個(gè)敗筆，這兒猶如神來(lái)之筆”，等等。想勝任這一職責(zé)的讀者，必須具有非同凡響的想象力、洞察力和學(xué)識(shí)，這絕非易事，最自信者也恐難找到自身這樣的潛能。那么，免去閱讀的這一過(guò)程，讓批評(píng)家、讓圖書(shū)館里衣冠楚楚的權(quán)威來(lái)為我們決定書(shū)的最終價(jià)值這個(gè)問(wèn)題，難道不更明智些嗎?非也!我們可以強(qiáng)調(diào)同感的價(jià)值;我們可以在閱讀中忘掉自己。但我們清楚，我們不可能與別人完全同感，也不可能完全忘掉自我，內(nèi)心深處似乎總有一個(gè)無(wú)法平息的“魔鬼”在低語(yǔ)：“我恨!我愛(ài)!”。而正是這愛(ài)恨之情，密切了我們與詩(shī)人和小說(shuō)家之間的關(guān)系，讓我們無(wú)法容忍另一人橫亙其中。即便結(jié)果不符，評(píng)判不對(duì)，但閱讀中我們的品位，既震撼我們的感覺(jué)，無(wú)疑都深深打動(dòng)和啟迪了我們。我們通過(guò)感受獲知;壓抑個(gè)性會(huì)導(dǎo)致它的弱化和枯竭。而隨著時(shí)間的推移，我們還可以培養(yǎng)自己的品位，使之得到某種調(diào)控。飽覽各種書(shū)籍(詩(shī)歌、小說(shuō)、歷史、傳記)之后，當(dāng)你停下閱讀，面對(duì)更廣泛的空間，即真實(shí)大千世界中的各種矛盾時(shí)，你會(huì)發(fā)現(xiàn)，你的品位變化無(wú)幾，它不急切，而是更加深思熟慮。它不僅令我們對(duì)具體書(shū)籍作出評(píng)判，還會(huì)告訴我們某些書(shū)所具備的類(lèi)似的共同特點(diǎn)。注意，它會(huì)告訴我們什么是共同特點(diǎn)。它會(huì)引領(lǐng)我們?nèi)プx《李爾王》，然后再讀《阿伽門(mén)農(nóng)》，從而去發(fā)現(xiàn)這共同特點(diǎn)。因此，有品位作向?qū)?，我們可以超越具體作品，去尋找把書(shū)籍歸于一類(lèi)的特點(diǎn)，然后為這些特點(diǎn)命名，并由此建構(gòu)出幫助我們感知的規(guī)則。從這種辨別中，我們獲得更深入、更珍貴的愉悅。然而，規(guī)則只有在與書(shū)籍本身碰撞過(guò)程中不斷被打破，才會(huì)更有生命力，因此，沒(méi)有什么比憑空制定規(guī)則更容易、也更笨拙了。為了能鎮(zhèn)定地完成這一困難任務(wù)，我們不妨轉(zhuǎn)向那些很獨(dú)特的作家，是他們讓我們認(rèn)識(shí)了作為藝術(shù)的文學(xué)?？?tīng)柭芍巍⒌氯R頓和約翰遜在他們嚴(yán)謹(jǐn)?shù)呐u(píng)中，詩(shī)人和小說(shuō)家在他們深思熟慮的表達(dá)中，均顯出了驚人的英雄所見(jiàn)。他們展現(xiàn)并固化了我們內(nèi)心混沌深處那些翻騰、模糊的思想。而只有當(dāng)我們?cè)陂喿x中真切產(chǎn)生了問(wèn)題和獲取了建議，才讀有所獲。如果只是一味順從其權(quán)威，就像躺在灌木蔭處的羊群那樣，是別指望獲得幫助的。只有當(dāng)他們的規(guī)則與我們的發(fā)生碰撞并征服我們時(shí)，我們才能理解之。

如果讀書(shū)之道就是如此，如果讀書(shū)需要最珍貴的想象力、洞察力和評(píng)判力，你也許會(huì)得出這樣的結(jié)論，既文學(xué)實(shí)在是一門(mén)非常復(fù)雜的藝術(shù)，即便讀了一輩子的書(shū)，也很難對(duì)文學(xué)評(píng)論做出有價(jià)值的貢獻(xiàn)。我們始終都是讀者，我們不必戴上只屬于被稱(chēng)為批評(píng)家的少數(shù)人才能戴上的榮耀桂冠。但作為讀者，我們依然有自己的責(zé)任和重要地位。我們提出的標(biāo)準(zhǔn)和做出的評(píng)判，潛移默化地成作家進(jìn)行創(chuàng)作的氛圍的一部分。即便沒(méi)有出版，它們也會(huì)對(duì)他們產(chǎn)生影響。而這影響，如果導(dǎo)引得好，有活力、有個(gè)性，且誠(chéng)摯真切，會(huì)非常有價(jià)值。尤其是當(dāng)批評(píng)正處于一種必需的擱置狀態(tài)之時(shí)，情形更是如此。書(shū)籍進(jìn)入評(píng)論，就像動(dòng)物進(jìn)入射擊場(chǎng)，評(píng)論家只有短短一秒種時(shí)間裝彈、瞄準(zhǔn)和射擊，所以如果他把兔子看成老虎，把老鷹看成百姓的家禽，或者完全脫靶，或者誤中了正在附近田野里安詳吃草的牧牛，都應(yīng)該原諒他們。如果作者能在評(píng)論界變幻莫測(cè)的炮火之外感受到另一種批評(píng)，感受到那些因愛(ài)讀書(shū)而讀書(shū)的人們的看法——這些人的評(píng)論也許不很及時(shí)，不很專(zhuān)業(yè)，但卻很共鳴，很認(rèn)真——這難道不足以促使他提高作品的質(zhì)量嗎?如果通過(guò)我們的努力，圖書(shū)的世界變得更有影響力，更豐富，更多樣，這難道不是值得我們追尋的目標(biāo)嗎?

當(dāng)然，誰(shuí)又會(huì)在閱讀時(shí)老想著實(shí)現(xiàn)一個(gè)目標(biāo)呢?無(wú)論這個(gè)目標(biāo)多么令人向往?生活中有些事我們追求，不就是因?yàn)檫@追求本身很值，而我們又樂(lè)在其中嗎?而讀書(shū)，難道不是這些樂(lè)事中的一個(gè)嗎?我有時(shí)遐想，當(dāng)世界審判日最終來(lái)臨，那些偉大的征服者、律師、政治家前來(lái)領(lǐng)取他們的獎(jiǎng)賞：王冠、桂冠和永久鏤刻在不會(huì)磨滅的大理石上的名字時(shí)，上帝會(huì)轉(zhuǎn)向圣。彼得，而當(dāng)他看到我們夾著書(shū)向他走來(lái)時(shí)，他會(huì)不無(wú)妒意地說(shuō)，“看啊，這些人不需要任何獎(jiǎng)賞。我們這里也沒(méi)有可以給他們的獎(jiǎng)。他們熱愛(ài)讀書(shū)。”