“The
litany of great books can, of course, come across as mere litany. Books that
charm us in one season, books that shake us to the core in another, can turn
blank and empty if we approach them in a dull spirit. Reading them for the sake
of duty or out of pedantry is certain to miss the point. The best books are
best because of their quirky individuality, not because they are part of a club
of `great’ books.”
“Great
books” is a category without meaning, akin to “classic rock.” It smacks of
marketing and focus groups. True, many of the books commonly stamped with that
label are the ones we read to understand the culture we have inherited, to maintain
a living linkage with the past and to enjoy. Our ancestors fairly often knew
what they were doing. Among the reasons we read Plutarch is that Shakespeare
read him, which is one of the reasons we read Shakespeare.
One
must be skeptical of newly published books.
They are unknown quantities from a backward and provincial age. They
must work hard to prove themselves, and seldom do.
The
late D.G. Myers, who regularly reviewed current fiction, shared some good, seemingly
contradictory advice: “Read no book before it is ten years old (in order not to
be influenced by the buzz).” Here’s my corollary: If a book creates “buzz,” run
away as fast as you can.
The
author of the passage quoted at the top, Rachel Peterson, writes in “On Reading Old Books”: “But sometimes the most exhilarating departure from normal is to
travel to another world. Old books are the ticket.” Of course, Peterson is reformulating
something found in an old book, namely Hazlitt’s identically titled essay “On Reading Old Books” (1819). Hazlitt states the matter definitively: “I have more
confidence in the dead than the living.”
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