The Pleasure of Books

The Pleasure of Books

 

William Lyon Phelps

(William Lyon Phelps (1865-1943) was an American educator, literary criticand author. He served as a professor of English at Yale Universityfrom 1901 to 1933. On April 6, 1933, he delivered this speech during a radiobroadcast.)

The habit of reading is one of thegreatest resources of mankind; and we enjoy reading books that belong to usmuch more than if they are borrowed. A borrowed book is like a guest in thehouse; it must be treated with punctiliousness, with a certain considerateformality. You must see that it sustains no damage; it must not suffer whileunder your roof. You cannot leave it carelessly, you cannot mark it, you cannotturn down the pages, you cannot use it familiarly. And then, some day, althoughthis is seldom done, you really ought to return it.

But your own books belong to you;you treat them with that affectionate intimacy that annihilates formality.Books are for use, not for show; you should own no book that you are afraid tomark up, or afraid to place on the table, wide open and face down. A goodreason for marking favorite passages in books is that this practice enables youto remember more easily the significant sayings, to refer to them quickly, andthen in later years, it is like visiting a forest where you once blazed atrail. You have the pleasure of going over the old ground, and recallingboth the intellectual scenery and your own earlier self.

Everyone should begin collecting aprivate library in youth; the instinct of private property, which isfundamental in human beings, can here be cultivated with every advantage and noevils. One should have one's own bookshelves, which should not have doors,glass windows, or keys; they should be free and accessible to the hand as wellas to the eye. The best of mural decorations is books; they are more varied incolor and appearance than any wallpaper, they are more attractive in design,and they have the prime advantage of being separate personalities, so that ifyou sit alone in the room in the firelight, you are surrounded with intimatefriends. The knowledge that they are there in plain view is both stimulatingand refreshing. You do not have to read them all. Most of my indoor life isspent in a room containing six thousand books; and I have a stock answer to theinvariable question that comes from strangers. "Have you read all of thesebooks?"
"Some of them twice." This reply is both true and unexpected.

There are of course no friends likeliving, breathing, corporeal men and women; my devotion to reading has nevermade me a recluse. How could it? Books are of the people, by the people, forthe people. Literature is the immortal part of history; it is the best andmost enduring part of personality. But book-friends have this advantage overliving friends; you can enjoy the most truly aristocratic society in theworld whenever you want it. The great dead are beyond our physical reach,and the great living are usually almost as inaccessible; as for our personalfriends and acquaintances, we cannot always see them. Perchance they areasleep, or away on a journey. But in a private library, you can at anymoment converse with Socrates or Shakespeare or Carlyle or Dumas or Dickens orShaw or Barrieor Galsworthy. And there is no doubt that in these books you see these men attheir best. They wrote for you. They "laid themselvesout," they did their ultimate best to entertain you, to make a favorableimpression. You are necessary to them as an audience is to an actor; onlyinstead of seeing them masked, you look into their innermost heart of heart.