(Over 60 diverse thinkers on how to get more from books)
Miller was an American novelist and essayist.
The works found in lists of “best books” do not constitute our intellectual or cultural foundations. Rather, each of us must dig our foundations, decide for ourselves which material, which elements of culture are allowed to influence us and shape our characters and lives (H. Miller 1969, 32). We should begin not with classics, then, but with books from our own time—those concerning the world in which we live. We can learn from our contemporaries what past literature is worthwhile, and the good reader will naturally gravitate to the good books (ibid.).
A book lives, therefore, “through the passionate recommendation of one reader to another”; without this enthusiastic reader breathing “spirit into other readers”, the book dies (pp. 22, 28). Books should always be circulating, lent and borrowed as much as possible (p. 23). In this way, books are not only friends but ways of making friends and deepening friendships (ibid.). And friends are better at suggesting titles to which we’re receptive (p. 53). Many classics, for example, “cannot begin to be understood and appreciated until one has lived and thought for himself” (p. 123). Having finished a book he liked, Miller wrote laudatory letters to friends, associates, potential publishers, and anybody else he could think of (p. 55). We have a responsibility to perpetuate the books we find important, rather than just laying them aside—in a deep sense reading is a creative act, sustaining and continuing the author’s work (p. 28).
However, we inspire resistance in our interlocutors when we praise a book too much—we should not seek to meddle with another’s destiny through heavy-handed insistence (pp. 32, 55). Our own resistance to books can bury them, make them unapproachable, because of the walls of prejudice we’ve erected in terms of their subject, style or “unfortunate associations” (pp. 29–30). An example for Miller was Wuthering Heights, which “through pride and prejudice” he almost missed reading because he assumed that “it was impossible for an English novel—by a woman!—to be that good” (p. 31). It took a recommendation by one friend, then later another friend giving him a copy before he read it in one sitting, and was left astounded by its power and beauty (ibid.). Recommendations can plant a seed in their recipients, but they require subtlety and patience to succeed.
Miller learned that the hardest part of life is learning “to do only what is strictly advantageous to one’s welfare, strictly vital” (p. 23). Accordingly, we should read as little, not as much, as possible (ibid.). He had not needed to read even a tenth of what he did (ibid.). Further, his slavish reading left him fearful of recovering his own voice as a writer (p. 198). To live wisely and fully, we should prefer to experience life directly rather than mediated by a book (p. 31). He proposes: (p. 23)
When you stumble upon a book you would like to read, or think you ought to read, leave it alone for a few days. But think about it as intensely as you can. Let the title and the author’s name revolve in your mind. Think what you yourself might have written had the opportunity been yours. Ask yourself earnestly if it be absolutely necessary to add this work to your store of knowledge or your fund of enjoyment. Try to imagine what it would mean to forego this extra pleasure or enlightenment. Then, if you find you must read the book, observe with what extraordinary acumen you tackle it. Observe, too, that however stimulating it may be, very little of the book is really new to you. If you are honest with yourself you will discover that your stature has increased from the mere effort of resisting your impulses.
He suggests that we meditate on free time—keeping our minds open, rather than abusing books to escape our thoughts—and resume reading only if this proves unfruitful (pp. 265–6, 268–9, 276, 283). When we do read, we should ask ourselves if we are “stronger, wiser, happier, nobler, more contented beings” (p. 276)? Miller contends that we will not be but that we must discover this ourselves (ibid.).
Before beginning to write, reading for Miller “was nothing more than a narcotic, stimulating at first but depressing and paralyzing afterwards”, “the most voluptuous and the most pernicious of pastimes” (p. 34). To hone his craft he began reading in a cold-blooded and analytical fashion the books that had previously worked magic on him, analysing and deconstructing his favourite authors in order to understand how they enchanted him (pp. 34, 40). This didn’t diminish his enjoyment of reading, however, because a mark of a great book is that it can be reread “with no rupture of the original spell” (p. 48). This process was educational, but Miller decided that instead of wondering about these things we should listen to what the author has to say, and let their words move us, alter us, and make us more and more what we truly are (p. 35).
Writing makes us better readers because the “most important factor in the appreciation of any art is the practice of it” (ibid.). The more Miller wrote his own books the more he read his favourite authors with “the right and the left eye”: he understood “what others are trying to tell me in their books” and became more tolerant, lenient, and understanding (p. 36).
Miller annotated extensively the books he liked, partly so when he rediscovered them he was reminded of his opinions and reactions (p. 26). He copied out long passages from some books, often placing them above his door “so that, in leaving, my friends would be sure to read them” (pp. 27–28). This was a way of spreading ideas and books, like his practice of passionate recommendations; it wasn’t a means of remembering. Miller only wished to preserve “the Proustian sort” of memory: “The flavor, the savor, the aroma, the ambience, as well as the value or non-value of a thing, I never forget” (p. 27). Rather than striving to remember, “it is important to cultivate a ‘forgettery’”: “When I really wish to recall something I can, though it may take considerable time and effort. I know quietly that nothing is lost” (ibid.).
Miller read highly-focused attention and concentration, directing all of his faculties to the task: what he read “soaked through”. He never read to kill time (p. 265). “Don’t read in order to divert your mind from the business at hand,” he counsels: “What the autonomic system likes, what it responds to, is thorough concentration…Whatever you do, tackle it with a free mind and a clear conscience” (p. 268).
The only valid reason to read should be our enjoyment: to “be stimulated to greater, higher activity and richer being” (p. 274). To enjoy a book, to extract from it what is vital, requires us to be fully awake when we read (p. 123). This attitude allows us to enjoy whatever comes into our experience and profit fully; we deceive ourselves when we seek to profit from books (ibid.).
When we read an exciting, compelling book that feels insightful and interesting, we tend to read it briskly (p. 131). When “we stumble on a…stimulating and provocative” portion, we “stifle and suppress our thoughts, pretending that we will return to them when we have finished the book. We never do, of course” (ibid.). Instead, we would find the experience much more enriching and instructive “if we proceeded at a snail’s pace” (ibid.).