(Over 60 diverse thinkers on how to get more from books)
Ruskin was an English polymath.
There are two kinds of books, in his estimation: those “of the hour” and those “of all time” (Ruskin, 19). This is not a classification of merit, but rather one of “permanence” or “species”: both encompass good and bad books (pp. 19–20).
Books of the hour are “the useful or pleasant talk of some person whom you cannot otherwise converse with, printed for you” (p. 20). They may be useful and pleasant, but ultimately have the character of letters or newspapers, just in better print: they are written to convey a voice (pp. 20–1). They are not truly a book to be read (p. 21).
By contrast, a “book of all time” is written not merely for communication but to “preserve” the author’s voice. The author wishes to say something which they deem true, useful, beautiful, or original—their “inscription or scripture” (pp. 21–2). This writing does not necessarily correspond to an entire printed book; it is whatever part of an author’s work that is “honestly and benevolently done…the true bits”: “those are the book” (pp. 22–3). Such writing displays a distinctive attitude: it “is full of admiration and awe; it may contain firm assertion or stern satire, but it never sneers coldly, nor asserts haughtily, and it always leads you to reverence or love something with your whole heart” (Ruskin 1971, 226).
The library of books of all time represents a treasury of history’s wisdom, a “court of the past” which is open only to “labour and merit” (Ruskin, 24). Any literate person may partake in this “conversation of the wise”: “Learn to understand it, and you shall hear it” (ibid.). The wise will not stoop; the reader must rise to them by possessing a genuine desire to be taught by them, “enter into their thoughts”, then “enter into their hearts” by sharing their passion or sensation (pp. 25–50).
The first condition—entering into the thoughts of the wise—is opposed to trying “to find your own expressed by them” (p. 25). We read a book because we believe that the author is wiser than us in some respect, so has something to teach, but this implies that they will think differently to us (ibid.). So when reading we should expect to feel that the ideas are strange, having not occurred to us; it is no compliment to either us or the author that what we’re reading is exactly what we already think (pp. 25–6).
We must first ascertain the author’s meaning before we judge the text’s truth (p. 26). The truth is often hidden, so discovering it is a long and painful process (pp. 26–7). This requires “the habit of looking intensely at words, and assuring yourself of their meaning…letter by letter” (p. 28). An educated person knows their language precisely in terms of correct pronouciation and etymology (p. 29). It redounds on our character to investigate all words of which we have doubts, patiently consulting a dictionary (p. 35). Reading rightly is to examine the text word-by-word, paying attention to every accent and expression, but further it requires “putting ourselves always in the author’s place, annihilating our own personality” in order to enter theirs (p. 45).
The second condition for the reader to rise to the wise—sharing their passion or sensation—is to feel with them what is righteous (pp. 51–2). True passion, like true knowledge, is “disciplined and tested” (p. 52). These are noble feelings which we cultivate from a just and stable disposition through careful contemplation (ibid.). Ruskin believed that “we are only human in so far as we are sensitive, and our honour is precisely in proportion to our passion” (p. 50).
In becoming mighty in both mind and heart—magnanimous—we advance in life: our heart gets softer, our blood warmer, our brain quicker, and our spirit enters into “living peace” (p. 84). To converse with great authors of the past, to learn from them, we require the proper “incantation of the heart”: in rising to their level by becoming mighty, we are able to deeply understand their wisdom (p. 82). We become capable of rousing these “kings” of wisdom and sharing their treasures—“treasures that needed no guarding—treasures of which, the more thieves there were, the better!” (p. 87).
In another context Ruskin suggests reading the Western classics of Ancient Greece, Dante, Shakespeare, and Spenser (Ruskin 1971, 226). He cautions against magazines and reviews, objecting to the notion that with a reviewer’s help you can understand a subject without pains. Instead, we should read the book on the subject with the best reputation; if that doesn’t suffice, seek another on the same subject (ibid.).
A healthier mind will result if you “restrain your serious reading to reflective or lyric poetry, history, and natural history, avoiding fiction and the drama” (pp. 226–7). When we do read imaginative literature, we should read in short bursts, “trying to feel interest in little things, and reading not so much for the sake of the story as to get acquainted with the pleasant people into whose company these writers bring you” (p. 228). We may be amused by a common book, but only a noble, kingly book “will give you dear friends” (ibid.).