I do not think that I have ever cared much for metaphysics, or to read much in that way, but from time to time I have done something of it.
Travels, of course, I have read as part of the great human story, and autobiography4 has at times appeared to me the most delightful5 reading in the world; I have a taste in it that rejects nothing, though I have never enjoyed any autobiographies6 so much as those of such Italians as have reasoned of themselves.
I suppose I have not been a great reader of the drama, and I do not know that I have ever greatly relished7 any plays but those of Shakespeare and Goldoni, and two or three of Beaumont and Fletcher, and one or so of Marlow’s, and all of Ibsen’s and Maeterlinck’s. The taste for the old English dramatists I believe I have never formed.
Criticism, ever since I filled myself so full of it in my boyhood, I have not cared for, and often I have found it repulsive9.
I have a fondness for books of popular science, perhaps because they too are part of the human story.
I have read somewhat of the theology of the Swedenborgian faith I was brought up in, but I have not read other theological works; and I do not apologize for not liking10 any. The Bible itself was not much known to me at an age when most children have been obliged to read it several times over; the gospels were indeed familiar, and they have always been to me the supreme11 human story; but the rest of the New Testament12 I had not read when a man grown, and only passages of the Old Testament, like the story of the Creation, and the story of Joseph, and the poems of Job and Ecclesiastes, with occasional Psalms13. I therefore came to the Scriptures14 with a sense at once fresh and mature, and I can never be too glad that I learned to see them under the vaster horizon and in the truer perspectives of experience.
Again as lights on the human story I have liked to read such books of medicine as have fallen in my way, and I seldom take up a medical periodical without reading of all the cases it describes, and in fact every article in it.
But I did not mean to make even this slight departure from the main business of these papers, which is to confide15 my literary passions to the reader; he probably has had a great many of his own. I think I may class the “Ring and the Book” among them, though I have never been otherwise a devotee of Browning. But I was still newly home from Italy, or away from home, when that poem appeared, and whether or not it was because it took me so with the old enchantment16 of that land, I gave my heart promptly17 to it. Of course, there are terrible longueurs in it, and you do get tired of the same story told over and over from the different points of view, and yet it is such a great story, and unfolded with such a magnificent breadth and noble fulness, that one who blames it lightly blames himself heavily. There are certain books of it — “Caponsacchi’s story,” “Pompilia’s story,” and “Count Guido’s story” — that I think ought to rank with the greatest poetry ever written, and that have a direct, dramatic expression of the fact and character, which is without rival. There is a noble and lofty pathos18 in the close of Caponsacchi’s statement, an artless and manly19 break from his self-control throughout, that seems to me the last possible effect in its kind; and Pompilia’s story holds all of womanhood in it, the purity, the passion, the tenderness, the helplessness. But if I begin to praise this or any of the things I have liked, I do not know when I should stop. Yes, as I think it over, the “Ring and the Book” appears to me one of the great few poems whose splendor20 can never suffer lasting21 eclipse, however it may have presently fallen into abeyance22. If it had impossibly come down to us from some elder time, or had not been so perfectly23 modern in its recognition of feeling and motives24 ignored by the less conscious poetry of the past, it might be ranked with the great epics25.
Of other modern poets I have read some things of William Morris, like the “Life and Death of Jason,” the “Story of Gudrun,” and the “Trial of Guinevere,” with a pleasure little less than passionate26, and I have equally liked certain pieces of Dante Rossetti. I have had a high joy in some of the great minor27 poems of Emerson, where the goddess moves over Concord28 meadows with a gait that is Greek, and her sandalled tread expresses a high scorn of the india-rubber boots that the American muse29 so often gets about in.
The “Commemoration Ode” of Lowell has also been a source from which I drank something of the divine ecstasy30 of the poet’s own exalted31 mood, and I would set this level with the ‘Biglow Papers,’ high above all his other work, and chief of the things this age of our country shall be remembered by. Holmes I always loved, and not for his wit alone, which is so obvious to liking, but for those rarer and richer strains of his in which he shows himself the lover of nature and the brother of men. The deep spiritual insight, the celestial32 music, and the brooding tenderness of Whittier have always taken me more than his fierier33 appeals and his civic34 virtues35, though I do not underrate the value of these in his verse.
My acquaintance with these modern poets, and many I do not name because they are so many, has been continuous with their work, and my pleasure in it not inconstant if not equal. I have spoken before of Longfellow as one of my first passions, and I have never ceased to delight in him; but some of the very newest and youngest of our poets have given me thrills of happiness, for which life has become lastingly36 sweeter.
Long after I had thought never to read it — in fact when I was ‘nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita’ — I read Milton’s “Paradise Lost,” and found in it a majestic37 beauty that justified38 to me the fame it wears, and eclipsed the worth of those lesser39 poems which I had ignorantly accounted his worthiest40. In fact, it was one of the literary passions of the time I speak of, and it shared my devotion for the novels of Tourguenief and (shall I own it?) the romances of Cherbuliez. After all, it is best to be honest, and if it is not best, it is at least easiest; it involves the fewest embarrassing consequences; and if I confess the spell that the Revenge of Joseph Noirel cast upon me for a time, perhaps I shall be able to whisper the reader behind my hand that I have never yet read the “AEneid” of Virgil; the “Georgics,” yes; but the “AEneid,” no. Some time, however, I expect to read it and to like it immensely. That is often the case with things that I have held aloof41 from indefinitely.
One fact of my experience which the reader may, find interesting is that when I am writing steadily42 I have little relish8 for reading. I fancy, that reading is not merely a pastime when it is apparently44 the merest pastime, but that a certain measure of mind-stuff is used up in it, and that if you are using up all the mind stuff you have, much or little, in some other way, you do not read because you have not the mind-stuff for it. At any rate it is in this sort only that I can account for my failure to read a great deal during four years of the amplest quiet that I spent in the country at Belmont, whither we removed from Cambridge. I had promised myself that in this quiet, now that I had given up reviewing, and wrote little or nothing in the magazine but my stories, I should again read purely45 for the pleasure of it, as I had in the early days before the critical purpose had qualified46 it with a bitter alloy47. But I found that not being forced to read a number of books each month, so that I might write about them, I did not read at all, comparatively speaking. To be sure I dawdled48 over a great many books that I had read before, and a number of memoirs49 and biographies, but I had no intense pleasure from reading in that time, and have no passions to record of it. It may have been a period when no new thing happened in literature deeply to stir one’s interest; I only state the fact concerning myself, and suggest the most plausible50 theory I can think of.
I wish also to note another incident, which may or may not have its psychological value. An important event of these years was a long sickness which kept me helpless some seven or eight weeks, when I was forced to read in order to pass the intolerable time. But in this misery51 I found that I could not read anything of a dramatic cast, whether in the form of plays or of novels. The mere43 sight of the printed page, broken up in dialogue, was anguish52. Yet it was not the excitement of the fiction that I dreaded53, for I consumed great numbers of narratives54 of travel, and was not in the least troubled by hairbreadth escapes, or shipwrecks55, or perils56 from wild beasts or deadly serpents; it was the dramatic effect contrived57 by the playwright58 or novelist, and worked up to in the speech of his characters that I could not bear. I found a like impossible stress from the Sunday newspaper which a mistaken friend sent in to me, and which with its scare-headings, and artfully wrought59 sensations, had the effect of fiction, as in fact it largely was.
At the end of four years we went abroad again, and travel took away the appetite for reading as completely as writing did. I recall nothing read in that year in Europe which moved me, and I think I read very little, except the local histories of the Tuscan cities which I afterwards wrote of.
点击收听单词发音
1 recurred | |
再发生,复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 ); 治愈 | |
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2 trickled | |
v.滴( trickle的过去式和过去分词 );淌;使)慢慢走;缓慢移动 | |
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3 urns | |
n.壶( urn的名词复数 );瓮;缸;骨灰瓮 | |
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4 autobiography | |
n.自传 | |
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5 delightful | |
adj.令人高兴的,使人快乐的 | |
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6 autobiographies | |
n.自传( autobiography的名词复数 );自传文学 | |
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7 relished | |
v.欣赏( relish的过去式和过去分词 );从…获得乐趣;渴望 | |
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8 relish | |
n.滋味,享受,爱好,调味品;vt.加调味料,享受,品味;vi.有滋味 | |
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9 repulsive | |
adj.排斥的,使人反感的 | |
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10 liking | |
n.爱好;嗜好;喜欢 | |
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11 supreme | |
adj.极度的,最重要的;至高的,最高的 | |
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12 testament | |
n.遗嘱;证明 | |
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13 psalms | |
n.赞美诗( psalm的名词复数 );圣诗;圣歌;(中的) | |
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14 scriptures | |
经文,圣典( scripture的名词复数 ); 经典 | |
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15 confide | |
v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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16 enchantment | |
n.迷惑,妖术,魅力 | |
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17 promptly | |
adv.及时地,敏捷地 | |
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18 pathos | |
n.哀婉,悲怆 | |
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19 manly | |
adj.有男子气概的;adv.男子般地,果断地 | |
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20 splendor | |
n.光彩;壮丽,华丽;显赫,辉煌 | |
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21 lasting | |
adj.永久的,永恒的;vbl.持续,维持 | |
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22 abeyance | |
n.搁置,缓办,中止,产权未定 | |
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23 perfectly | |
adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
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24 motives | |
n.动机,目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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25 epics | |
n.叙事诗( epic的名词复数 );壮举;惊人之举;史诗般的电影(或书籍) | |
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26 passionate | |
adj.热情的,热烈的,激昂的,易动情的,易怒的,性情暴躁的 | |
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27 minor | |
adj.较小(少)的,较次要的;n.辅修学科;vi.辅修 | |
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28 concord | |
n.和谐;协调 | |
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29 muse | |
n.缪斯(希腊神话中的女神),创作灵感 | |
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30 ecstasy | |
n.狂喜,心醉神怡,入迷 | |
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31 exalted | |
adj.(地位等)高的,崇高的;尊贵的,高尚的 | |
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32 celestial | |
adj.天体的;天上的 | |
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33 fierier | |
燃烧的( fiery的比较级 ); 火似的; 火热的; 激烈的 | |
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34 civic | |
adj.城市的,都市的,市民的,公民的 | |
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35 virtues | |
美德( virtue的名词复数 ); 德行; 优点; 长处 | |
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36 lastingly | |
[医]有残留性,持久地,耐久地 | |
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37 majestic | |
adj.雄伟的,壮丽的,庄严的,威严的,崇高的 | |
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38 justified | |
a.正当的,有理的 | |
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39 lesser | |
adj.次要的,较小的;adv.较小地,较少地 | |
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40 worthiest | |
应得某事物( worthy的最高级 ); 值得做某事; 可尊敬的; 有(某人或事物)的典型特征 | |
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41 aloof | |
adj.远离的;冷淡的,漠不关心的 | |
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42 steadily | |
adv.稳定地;不变地;持续地 | |
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43 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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44 apparently | |
adv.显然地;表面上,似乎 | |
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45 purely | |
adv.纯粹地,完全地 | |
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46 qualified | |
adj.合格的,有资格的,胜任的,有限制的 | |
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47 alloy | |
n.合金,(金属的)成色 | |
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48 dawdled | |
v.混(时间)( dawdle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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49 memoirs | |
n.回忆录;回忆录传( mem,自oir的名词复数) | |
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50 plausible | |
adj.似真实的,似乎有理的,似乎可信的 | |
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51 misery | |
n.痛苦,苦恼,苦难;悲惨的境遇,贫苦 | |
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52 anguish | |
n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦,烦恼 | |
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53 dreaded | |
adj.令人畏惧的;害怕的v.害怕,恐惧,担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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54 narratives | |
记叙文( narrative的名词复数 ); 故事; 叙述; 叙述部分 | |
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55 shipwrecks | |
海难,船只失事( shipwreck的名词复数 ); 沉船 | |
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56 perils | |
极大危险( peril的名词复数 ); 危险的事(或环境) | |
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57 contrived | |
adj.不自然的,做作的;虚构的 | |
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58 playwright | |
n.剧作家,编写剧本的人 | |
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59 wrought | |
v.引起;以…原料制作;运转;adj.制造的 | |
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