補習-How Should One Read a Book? 應該怎樣讀書

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 fathers 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 Ones 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 Womens 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[1] 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 conventionsthere 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 novelif 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 youhow 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 novelistDefoe, 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 personDefoe, Jane Austen, or Thomas Hardybut 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 exposedthe 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 anotherfrom Jane Austen to Hardy, from Peacock[2] to Trollope,[3] from Scott to Meredith[4]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 novelistthe great artistgives you. * * * * We have only to comparewith 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 themRobinson Crusoe, Emma, The Return of the Native. Compare the novels with theseeven the latest and least of novels has a right to be judged with the best. And so with poetrywhen 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,[5] with The Prelude;[6] 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 firstto 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 illuminatingthat 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 readers 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 books 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 sortspoetry, fiction, history, biographyand 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[7] 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 themselvesnothing is easier and more stultifying than to make rules which exist out touch with facts, in a vacuumnow 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[8] and Dryden[9] and Johnson,[10] 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 rewardstheir crowns, their laurels, their names carved indelibly upon imperishable marblethe Almighty will turn to Peter[11] 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 authors 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 authors 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 authors 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. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 注釋： [1] the battle of Waterloo Waterloo is a town in Belgium, the place where Napoleon Bonaparte(17691821) and his army was totally defeated. [2] Thomas Love Peacock (1785--1866)，British novelist and poet. [3] Anthony Trollope (181582), British novelist. [4] George Meredith(1828--1909)，British novelist and poet. [5] Phedre French tragic poet Jean Racines(16391699) works. [6] The Prelude British poet William Wordsworths(17701850) long poem. [7] Agamenon The ancient Greece great tragic poet Aischulos(520 BC456BC) works. [8] Samuel Taylor Coleridge(17721834) British romantic poet. [9] John Dryden(16311700) British poet and critic. [10] Samuel Johnson(17091784) British writer. [11] Peter one of the twelve disciple of Jesus Christ. 應該怎樣讀書 弗吉尼亞伍爾夫 首先我要特別提醒讀者注意本文標題后面的問號，即便我能夠回答這個問題，答案或許也只適合我自己而并不適合你。其實，指點別人怎樣讀書的唯一建議，就是別聽從任何指點。遵循自己的直覺、運用自己的判斷，去得出自己的結論。如果我們對此有共識，我就可以無拘束地提出一些看法和建議，因為這些看法和建議不至于會禁錮你的獨立見解。而獨立見解，正是讀者應具備的最重要的品質。那么，關于讀書，會有些什么規則呢？滑鐵盧之戰無疑是發生在某特定一天中的一場戰役；《哈姆雷特》一劇是否就一定比《李爾王》更好呢？這問題想必很難回答，不同的讀者會有不同的見解。如果讓權威之說占據我們的圖書領域，無論它們多堂皇、多嚴實，讓它們指點我們怎么讀、讀什么和對所讀之書做出評價，都無疑破壞了書之魂中所蘊涵的自由與開放精神。我們似乎在任何方面都有習俗和規范，惟獨在讀書方面沒有。 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花棚一樣。我們應當適宜而扎實地善待自己的精力和才智，現在就立馬開始。這也許是我們在圖書館首先面臨的困難。何為立馬開始？我們面對的似乎是龐雜繁紛的堆砌：詩歌、小說、歷史、傳記、詞典、藍皮書；不同種族不同年代的男女用不同語言寫就的不同品位的書；它們一本本緊靠著排列在書架上。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？我們怎么才能從紛繁的雜亂中理出頭緒，進而從我們的所讀中獲取最深最廣的歡愉呢？ 無庸諱言，書籍有類別之分，比如小說，傳記，詩歌等等。我們應該從各種不同類別的圖書中獲取不同的營養。然而，事實上，只有少數人能正確對待書籍，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來 ，要求小說該真實，詩歌應該不真實，傳記必須充滿溢美之詞，歷史得強化我們固有的觀念。閱讀時，如果我們能摒棄這些偏見，便是一個好的開端。不要強作者所難，而應與作者融為一體，作他的同路人和隨行者。倘若你未開卷便先行猶豫退縮，說三道四，你絕不可能從閱讀中最大限度地獲取有用價值。但是，字里行間不易察覺的精妙之處，就為你洞開了一個別人難以領略的天地。沉浸其中，仔細玩味，不久，你會發現，作者給予你的，或試圖給予你的，絕非某個確定意義。一部小說的三十二個章節--------如果我們先來討論怎么閱讀小說的話-------猶如建筑的構架，但詞匯比磚頭令人更難捉摸。閱讀比之于觀看，當然是個更為長久而復雜的過程。也許，最為快界地領略小說家工作的原理的方法，不是讀，而是寫；去冒險與詞匯打交道。回憶一下某個曾給你留下獨特印象的事件：街角處你碰到兩個人正在交談，當時周圍的場景是，樹在隨風擺動；街燈燈光搖曳不定；說話人聲調悲喜交集；那一刻你感受到的情景全然融合在一起。 可是，當你試圖用語言來再現這一場景時，它卻支離成上千個抵觸的印象，有些得略述，有些得加強。就在你訴諸文字的當兒，當初的感受已蕩然無存。拋開詞不達意的支離碎片吧，去打開大師們的名著吧，比如笛福，簡奧斯丁，哈代。這時，你當能更好地領會他們的精妙。我們不只是站在不同的大師面前---笛福，簡奧斯丁，或者托馬斯哈代----實際上我們是置身于完全不同的世界。在《魯賓遜漂流記》中，我們跋涉于久遠的征途，一個事件接著一個事件發生，事件與事件之間順序就足以構成其巨制。如果說戶外和冒險之于笛福是大顯身手的領地，那么，對于簡奧斯丁就無關緊要了。奧斯丁的世界是客廳，她通過活動于客廳里的任務的對話，反映人物性格。習慣了奧斯丁的客廳和通過客廳所反映的意向以后，我們再轉向哈代，腦袋似乎有一次發暈了。我們置身于荒野之中，星星在我們頭上閃爍。在這里，人類靈魂的另一面----孤寂中迸發的黑暗面，而不是處于凡世塵囂時所表露的光明面----被充分解剖。這里展示的不是人與人的關系，而是人與自然和命運的關系。三位作家描述了三個不同的世界，他們各自的世界是個連貫一致的整體。他們謹慎地遵循著各自觀察事物、描述事物的法則。無論作家傾向性多大，讀者不會在其中迷失方向，不至于像讀某些不在行的作者的作品那樣，在同一本書里看到兩個截然不同的現實。因此，閱讀一個個偉大小說家----從簡奧斯丁到哈代，從皮科克到特羅洛普，從司各脫到梅瑞迪思----你簡直就如翻江倒海，被一會兒扔到這里，一會兒拋向那邊。讀小說是一門艱難而復雜的藝術。要想利用小說家----偉大的藝術家----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程，如果想獲得一本書的全部愉悅，還得完成另一個過程，即對各種感受進行梳理和鑒別；把變幻不定的印象固化為明確和堅實的感受。但這不必操之過急，應靜待閱讀的塵埃落定，你的困惑和質疑已經沉淀之后；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。就這樣，不經意間，造化之神在我們全然不知中完成了它內化轉變的過程，書重又給我們帶來全新的意義。它以其完整的意義浮現在我們心際。而完整地領會全書，和只領會它的片言只語，是不可同日而語的。書中的細節已各得其所，我們從頭到尾看清了它的整體形象，正如谷倉、豬圈或教堂。現在我們就可以在書與書之間進行比較了，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厲了。那些耗費我們時間和情感的書，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，其作者難道不是社會最陰險的敵人，不是腐化者和墮落者嗎？我們必須做出嚴厲裁判；我們把每本書都與其同類中最杰出的作品來做對比。這類作品的特點我們已經了解，我們對它們的裁決更加深了這種了解，比如〈魯濱孫漂流記〉、〈愛瑪〉與〈還鄉〉等。把你讀到的小說與它們相比----即便最新和最次的小說，也都應該與這些最杰出的小說進行對比評判。詩歌同樣如此。當令人陶醉的韻律被淡忘，當詩中詞語的美妙意象已經消失，一種視覺形象會出現在我們的腦際，不妨把它與〈李爾王〉、〈費德爾〉和〈序曲〉相比，即使不與它們相比，也要與別的最好的，或者我們認為最好的同類作品相比。可以肯定的是，新創作的詩歌和小說的新穎之處，就在于它們的膚淺，我們無須完全改變評判過去作品的那些標準，只要稍做變動即可。 如果認為閱讀的第二個階段，即評判和比較階段（整理那一涌而至的眾多印象），與第一個階段一樣簡單，那是不明智的。擱下手中的書繼續閱讀，心中對種種意象進行比較，同時還要廣泛閱讀、充分領悟，以確保這樣的比較能形象而富有意義----這無疑是困難的。如果再加上這樣的要求，那就難上加難了：不僅這類書如此，這種審視也很普遍；這里處理不夠妥當；這里很成功；這地方是個敗筆，這兒猶如神來之筆，等等。想勝任這一職責的讀者，必須具有非同凡響的想象力、洞察力和學識，這絕非易事，最自信者也恐難找到自身這樣的潛能。那么，免去閱讀的這一過程，讓批評家、讓圖書館里衣冠楚楚的權威來為我們決定書的最終價值這個問題，難道不更明智些嗎？非也！我們可以強調同感的價值；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，內心深處似乎總有一個無法平息的魔鬼在低語：我恨！我愛！。而正是這愛恨之情，密切了我們與詩人和小說家之間的關系，讓我們無法容忍另一人橫亙其中。即便結果不符，評判不對，但閱讀中我們的品位，既震撼我們的感覺，無疑都深深打動和啟迪了我們。我們通過感受獲知；壓抑個性會導致它的弱化和枯竭。而隨著時間的推移，我們還可以培養自己的品位，使之得到某種調控。飽覽各種書籍（詩歌、小說、歷史、傳記）之后，當你停下閱讀，面對更廣泛的空間，即真實大千世界中的各種矛盾時，你會發現，你的品位變化無幾，它不急切，而是更加深思熟慮。它不僅令我們對具體書籍作出評判，還會告訴我們某些書所具備的類似的共同特點。注意，它會告訴我們什么是共同特點。它會引領我們去讀《李爾王》，然后再讀《阿伽門農》，從而去發現這共同特點。因此，有品位作向導，我們可以超越具體作品，去尋找把書籍歸于一類的特點，然后為這些特點命名，并由此建構出幫助我們感知的規則。從這種辨別中，我們獲得更深入、更珍貴的愉悅。然而，規則只有在與書籍本身碰撞過程中不斷被打破，才會更有生命力，因此，沒有什么比憑空制定規則更容易、也更笨拙了。為了能鎮定地完成這一困難任務，我們不妨轉向那些很獨特的作家，是他們讓我們認識了作為藝術的文學。柯爾律治、德萊頓和約翰遜在他們嚴謹的批評中，詩人和小說家在他們深思熟慮的表達中，均顯出了驚人的英雄所見。他們展現并固化了我們內心混沌深處那些翻騰、模糊的思想。而只有當我們在閱讀中真切產生了問題和獲取了建議，才讀有所獲。如果只是一味順從其權威，就像躺在灌木蔭處的羊群那樣，是別指望獲得幫助的。只有當他們的規則與我們的發生碰撞并征服我們時，我們才能理解之。 如果讀書之道就是如此，如果讀書需要最珍貴的想象力、洞察力和評判力，你也許會得出這樣的結論，既文學實在是一門非常復雜的藝術，即便讀了一輩子的書，也很難對文學評論做出有價值的貢獻。我們始終都是讀者，我們不必戴上只屬于被稱為批評家的少數人才能戴上的榮耀桂冠。但作為讀者，我們依然有自己的責任和重要地位。我們提出的標準和做出的評判，潛移默化地成作家進行創作的氛圍的一部分。即便沒有出版，它們也會對他們產生影響。而這影響，如果導引得好，有活力、有個性，且誠摯真切，會非常有價值。尤其是當批評正處于一種必需的擱置狀態之時，情形更是如此。書籍進入評論，就像動物進入射擊場，評論家只有短短一秒種時間裝彈、瞄準和射擊，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，都應該原諒他們。如果作者能在評論界變幻莫測的炮火之外感受到另一種批評，感受到那些因愛讀書而讀書的人們的看法----這些人的評論也許不很及時，不很專業，但卻很共鳴，很認真----這難道不足以促使他提高作品的質量嗎？如果通過我們的努力，圖書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嗎？ 當然，誰又會在閱讀時老想著實現一個目標呢？無論這個目標多么令人向往？生活中有些事我們追求，不就是因為這追求本身很值，而我們又樂在其中嗎？而讀書，難道不是這些樂事中的一個嗎？我有時遐想，當世界審判日最終來臨，那些偉大的征服者、律師、政治家前來領取他們的獎賞：王冠、桂冠和永久鏤刻在不會磨滅的大理石上的名字時，上帝會轉向圣彼得，而當他看到我們夾著書向他走來時，他會不無妒意地說，看啊，這些人不需要任何獎賞。我們這里也沒有可以給他們的獎。他們熱愛讀書。

Tag: 補習