(Over 60 diverse thinkers on how to get more from books)
Bain was a Scottish philosopher and educationist.
The “art of becoming wise through reading”, as opposed to acquiring knowledge in general, he termed study (Bain 1884, 203). To learn a new subject from books we first need a thorough understanding of its foundations. This is traditionally how higher education functions, but differs significantly from how most adults use books for learning.
When we read non-fiction about a new subject we tend to pick works consisting of one-sided discussions, introductory narratives and overviews, and controversial polemics: books that are interesting, pleasurable to read, and not too dense or theoretical. We expect to learn something from this experience, but Bain wants us to consider an alternative approach.
He suggests that we should begin a new subject by selecting “a text-book-in-chief” (pp. 203, 215). This need not be a textbook, per se, but a book with similar properties: a methodical structure, up-to-date, relatively comprehensive without being exhaustive, offering memorable and explanatory illustrations of concepts, and representing the prevailing view of the topic rather than the author’s idiosyncrasies (p. 222). An implication of these criteria is that books with great reputations, or works of genius, may be not be appropriate to begin study (ibid.). Further, commencing study with a particularly old book is only sensible if we desire “to work out a subject historically”, and even in this case the proper chronological sequence should be backward not forward (p. 223).
The contrast between how we typically approach subjects and Bain’s suggestion is clear. The book he suggests is not necessarily an easy read or gripping. It requires effort to comprehend, but by making this effort we create a mental schema for the subject: an outline of the subject that our future study can locate new knowledge in, and compare against. Once we have mastered the text-book-in-chief, our reading can widen (p. 218). The more subjective and idiosyncratic works—those that express the author’s personality—and those that are of historical interest or are controversial, can now be read with more profit because we have a basis for comparison. We read more widely now because any single book is insufficient for a course of study. We can’t fully grasp the merits of a book until we compare it with others, and we don’t comprehend a subject “unless we are able to see it stated in various forms, without being distracted or confused” (p. 224).
Whatever we read, though, we know that merely perusing it at an average pace isn’t the best way to learn from it (p. 228). Yet much daily reading is done precisely in this way. Part of the problem is that when reading an expository work without explicit awareness that we’re trying to learn something, we fail to adapt our reading style to suit our purpose. The formatting and style of a textbook instantiates the requisite pedagogical context, but a popular science book, say, is explicitly designed to be read as an enjoyable narrative—the latter may be momentarily diverting, but when read in a recreational mode, is unlikely to stay with us.
We remember better “through the exertion of picking, choosing, and condensing”: active reading (p. 232). It may be useful to memorise key propositions or specific passages, but verbatim copying or memorising without conception of the meaning is senseless (p. 231). Making abstracts is the best method to improve our comprehension of the material and impress it on our memory: “Any work that deserves thorough study deserves the labour of making an abstract; without which, indeed, the study is not thorough” (pp. 232, 234). Bain’s repeated references to effort and labour serve as a heuristic to evaluate our reading for wisdom: if it’s not effortful, if it’s not slightly laborious, if we aren’t carefully selecting material and expressing it in our words, then we’re not truly studying. Worse, we’re fooling ourselves that we are learning such that we may wrongly come to believe that we understand a subject.
When the structure of the book is logical and well-organised, our abstract can reflect that plan (p. 232). We record the key claims and examples, and use the headings under which the text is arranged to outline the topic and make a synopsis (ibid.). For particularly complicated subjects we “make a synopsis of the plan in itself, disentangling it from the applications, for greater clearness” (p. 239). Careful examination of a methodical table of contents yields a comprehensive view of the whole because we learn not only the parts but how they fit together, so develop an idea of how the field is structured (p. 235).
When we read books with a less methodical structure, the best approach for abstracting them may be to identify the agreements and controversies between the current work and the text-book-in-chief, highlighting the weak and strong propositions and examples (p. 233). Identifying these main points may require scanning each paragraph carefully, which by engaging our faculties better serves our memory and leaves us with a better grasp of the author (p. 235).
In abstracting, then, we need to balance two opposing tendencies: to record the author too literally such that we don’t remember their meaning, and to accommodate the author so much to our way of thinking and writing that we remember not the author but ourselves (ibid.). We should aim for the mean.
We’re best to proceed slowly through a book, mastering as we go, because the material retains its freshness and interest, and it’s more satisfying to know that we’re understanding what we read and that having finished the book, we’ve finished our main task (p. 249). Rereading will still be necessary, but only of passages that we marked as troublesome (pp. 249–250).
Quickly passing from one book to another “is to gain stimulation at the cost of acquisition” (p. 249). We should recognise that reading is fatiguing, and that we get the most from our labour by “the exercise of recalling without the book” as we progress (ibid.). Carrying on multiple distinct studies simultaneously is unlikely to be productive; if we need a rest, the alternative should be a recreational not acquisitive activity (p. 248).
To the experienced student there is no such thing as desultory reading; rather, they assume either a severe or easy-going attitude to their books (p. 250). The former is appropriate for systematic works on important subjects: the traditional, effortful mode of active concentration (ibid.). The latter is associated with brief pieces, newspapers and periodicals, when we’re relaxing (ibid.). In this easy-going mode we avoid difficult works and instead absorb interesting fragments of knowledge, rather than aiming at solving specific problems or discussing abstractions (ibid.). This kind of reading tends not to provide us with foundations or substantial insight, but may contribute to our knowledge of a field we do have a grounding in, or correct mistaken impressions (ibid.).
Ideally, reading is combined with both practical observation of the subject under study and conversing about it (pp. 251–253). Discussing what we have learned with somebody else who’s willing and interested helps us better remember and clarify difficulties that either of us have (p. 253). It provides a break from effortful book learning: each practice enhancing the other (ibid.). We should also attempt original composition to ensure that we understand what we have learned, impress it on our memory, and achieve a concrete result of our study in which we can take pride (p. 254). Following these precepts, Bain suggests, we will, in time become “a self-thinker, and a self-originator” (ibid.).