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Detached Thoughts on Books and Reading　讀書漫談

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2019年06月24日

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Detached Thoughts on Books and Reading

讀書漫談

Charles Lamb

查爾斯·蘭姆

作者簡介

查爾斯·蘭姆（Charles Lamb，1775—1834），英國著名散文家和評論家。蘭姆43歲時，《倫敦雜志》（London Magazine）主編向其約稿，內(nèi)容形式不限，每月刊出一篇。為了不受拘束地寫自己最熟悉、最愿意寫的東西，蘭姆借用老同事的名字“伊利亞”作為筆名，陸續(xù)發(fā)表了60多篇隨筆散文。這些隨筆散文后來結(jié)集出版，名為《伊利亞隨筆》（The Essays of Elia）和《伊利亞續(xù)筆》（The Last Essays of Elia）。

本文節(jié)選自1833年出版的《伊利亞續(xù)筆》。文中，蘭姆對自己讀過的詩書戲劇娓娓道來，筆法夾敘夾議，格調(diào)亦莊亦諧。文中對“非書之書”（biblia a-biblia）的論述常被后人引用。

To mind the inside of a book is to entertain one's self with the forced product of another man's brain. Now I think a man of quality and breeding may be much amused with the natural sprouts of his own.

—Lord Foppington in the Relapse

An ingenious acquaintance of my own was so much struck with this bright sally of his lordship, that he has left off reading altogether, to the great improvement of his originality. At the hazard of losing some credit on this head, I must confess that I dedicate no inconsiderable portion of my time to other people's thoughts. I dream away my life in others' speculations. I love to lose myself in other men's minds. When I am not walking, I am reading; I cannot sit and think. Books think for me.

I have no repugnance. Shaftesbury is not too genteel for me, nor Jonathan Wild too low. I can read anything which I call a book. There are things in that shape which I cannot allow for such.

In this catalogue of books which are no books—biblia a-biblia—I reckon Court Calendars, Directories, Pocket Books, Draught Boards, bound and lettered on the back, Scientific Treatises, Almanacks, Statutes at Large; the works of Hume, Gibbon, Robertson, Beattie, Soame Jenyns, and, generally, all those volumes which “no gentleman's library should be without”; the histories of Flavius Josephus (that learned Jew), and Paley's Moral Philosophy. With these exceptions, I can read almost anything. I bless my stars for a taste so catholic, so unexcluding.

I confess that it moves my spleen to see these things in books' clothing perched upon shelves, like false saints, usurpers of true shrines, intruders into the sanctuary, thrusting out the legitimate occupants. To reach down a well-bound semblance of a volume, and hope it is some kind-hearted playbook, then, opening what “seem its leaves”, to come bolt upon a withering Population Essay. To expect a Steele, or a Farquhar, and find—Adam Smith. To view a well-arranged assortment of blockheaded Encyclopaedias (Anglicanas or Metropolitanas) set out in an array of Russia, or Morocco, when a tithe of that good leather would comfortably re-clothe my shivering folios; would renovate Paracelsus himself, and enable old Raymund Lully to look like himself again in the world. I never see these impostors, but I long to strip them, to warm my ragged veterans in their spoils.

To be strong-backed and neat-bound is the desideratum of a volume. Magnificence comes after. This, when it can be afforded, is not to be lavished upon all kinds of books indiscriminately. I would not dress a set of Magazines, for instance, in full suit. The dishabille, or half-binding (with Russia backs ever) is our costume. A Shakespeare, or a Milton (unless the first editions), it were mere foppery to trick out in gay apparel. The possession of them confers no distinction.

The exterior of them (the things themselves being so common), strange to say, raises no sweet emotions, no tickling sense of property in the owner. Thomson's Seasons, again, looks best (I maintain it) a little torn, and dog's-eared. How beautiful to a genuine lover of reading are the sullied leaves, and worn out appearance, nay, the very odour (beyond Russia), if we would not forget kind feelings in fastidiousness, of an old “Circulating Library”Tom Jones, or Vicar of Wakefield! How they speak of the thousand thumbs, that have turned over their pages with delight!—of the lone sempstress, whom they may have cheered (milliner, or harder-working mantua-maker) after her long day's needle-toil, running far into midnight, when she has snatched an hour, ill spared from sleep, to steep her cares, as in some Lethean cup, in spelling out their enchanting contents! Who would have them a whit less soiled? What better condition could we desire to see them in?

In some respects the better a book is, the less it demands from binding. Fielding, Smollett, Sterne, and all that class of perpetually self-reproductive volumes—Great Nature's Stereotypes—we see them individually perish with less regret, because we know the copies of them to be “eterne.”But where a book is at once both good and rare—where the individual is almost the species, and when that perishes,

We know not where is that Promethean torch.

That can its light relumine—

such a book, for instance, as the Life of the Duke of Newcastle, by his Duchess—no casket is rich enough, no casing sufficiently durable, to honour and keep safe such a jewel.

…

Milton almost requires a solemn service of music to be played before you enter upon him. But he brings his music, to which, who listens, had need bring docile thoughts, and purged ears.

Winter evenings—the world shut out—with less of ceremony the gentle Shakespeare enters. At such a season, the Tempest, or his own Winter's Tale—

These two poets you cannot avoid reading aloud—to yourself, or (as it chances) to some single person listening. More than one—and it degenerates into an audience.

Books of quick interest, that hurry on for incidents, are for the eye to glide over only. It will not do to read them out. I could never listen to even the better kind of modern novels without extreme irksomeness.

A newspaper, read out, is intolerable. In some of the Bank offices it is the custom (to save so much individual time) for one of the clerks—who is the best scholar—to commence upon the Times, or the Chronicle, and recite its entire contents aloud pro bono publico. With every advantage of lungs and elocution, the effect is singularly vapid. In barbers' shops and public-houses a fellow will get up, and spell out a paragraph, which he communicates as some discovery. Another follows with his selection. So the entire journal transpires at length by piece-meal. Seldom-readers are slow readers, and, without this expedient no one in the company would probably ever travel through the contents of a whole paper.

Newspapers always excite curiosity. No one ever lays one down without a feeling of disappointment.

What an eternal time that gentleman in black, at Nando's, keeps the paper! I am sick of hearing the waiter bawling out incessantly, “the Chronicle is in hand, Sir.”

Coming in to an inn at night—having ordered your supper—what can be more delightful than to find lying in the window-seat, left there time out of mind by the carelessness of some former guest—two or three numbers of the old Town and Country Magazine, with its amusing tête-à-tête pictures—“The Royal Lover and Lady G—;”“The Melting Platonic and the Old Beau,”—and such like antiquated scandal? Would you exchange it—at that time, and in that place—for a better book?

Poor Tobin, who latterly fell blind, did not regret it so much for the weightier kinds of reading—the Paradise Lost, or Comus, he could have read to him—but he missed the pleasure of skimming over with his own eye—a magazine, or a light pamphlet.

I should not care to be caught in the serious avenues of some cathedral alone, and reading Candide!

I do not remember a more whimsical surprise than having been once detected—by a familiar damsel—reclined at my ease upon the grass, on Primrose Hill, reading—Pamela. There was nothing in the book to make a man seriously ashamed at the exposure; but as she seated herself down by me, and seemed determined to read in company, I could have wished it had been — any other book. We read on very sociably for a few pages; and, not finding the author much to her taste, she got up, and—went away. Gentle casuist, I leave it to thee to conjecture, whether the blush (for there was one between us) was the property of the nymph or the swain in this dilemma. From me you shall never get the secret.

I am not much a friend to out-of-doors reading. I cannot settle my spirits to it. I knew a Unitarian minister, who was generally to be seen upon Snow-hill (as yet Skinner's-street was not), between the hours of ten and eleven in the morning, studying a volume of Lardner. I own this to have been a strain of abstraction beyond my reach. I used to admire how he sidled along, keeping clear of secular contacts. An illiterate encounter with a porter's knot, or a bread basket, would have quickly put to flight all the theology I am master of, and have left me worse than indifferent to the five points.

There is a class of street-readers, whom I can never contemplate without affection—the poor gentry, who, not having wherewithal to buy or hire a book, filch a little learning at the open stalls—the owner, with his hard eye, casting envious looks at them all the while, and thinking when they will have done. Venturing tenderly, page after page, expecting every moment when he shall interpose his interdict, and yet unable to deny themselves the gratification, they “snatch a fearful joy.”Martin B.—, in this way, by daily fragments, got through two volumes of Clarissa, when the stall-keeper damped his laudable ambition, by asking him (it was in his younger days) whether he meant to purchase the work. M. declares, that under no circumstances of his life did he ever peruse a book with half the satisfaction which he took in those uneasy snatches. A quaint poetess of our day has moralised upon this subject in two very touching but homely stanzas.

I saw a boy with eager eye

Open a book upon a stall,

And read, as he'd devour it all;

Which when the stall-man did espy,

Soon to the boy I heard him call,

“You, Sir, you never buy a book,

Therefore in one you shall not look.”

The boy pass'd slowly on, and with a sigh

He wish'd he never had been taught to read,

Then of the old churl's books he should have had no need.

Of sufferings the poor have many,

Which never can the rich annoy:

I soon perceiv'd another boy,

Who look'd as if he had not any

Food, for that day at least—enjoy

The sight of cold meat in a tavern larder.

This boy's case, then thought I, is surely harder,

Thus hungry, longing, thus without a penny,

Beholding choice of dainty-dressed meat:

No wonder if he wish he ne'er had learn'd to eat.

把心思放在一本書的內(nèi)容上，就是用別人苦思冥想的結(jié)果為自己取樂。如今我認為，有本領(lǐng)、有教養(yǎng)之人或許能從自己頭腦的產(chǎn)物中獲得極大的樂趣。

——《舊病復發(fā)》中的福平頓爵士1

爵士的這番妙語深深打動了我的一位絕頂聰明的友人，于是他為了提高自己的獨創(chuàng)能力而徹底終止了閱讀。我則冒著在這方面丟臉的危險承認，我花了大量時間關(guān)注別人的思想。我在別人的思索中虛度光陰，我愛在別人的思想中迷失自我。我不是在走路，便是在讀書；我不能坐下來思考——書本替我思考。

我不反感任何書。我不會覺得沙夫茨伯里太高雅，或是覺得《魏爾德傳》太低俗。我可以讀一切我稱為“書”的東西。有些東西徒具書的外表，我不把它們稱為書。

在這個“非書之書”的目錄里，我列入了法庭日程表、禮拜規(guī)則大全、袖珍書、前面有封面、背面有字的跳棋棋盤、科學論文、年鑒、法案匯編；休謨、吉本、羅伯遜、貝蒂、索姆·杰寧斯的作品，以及所有的“紳士必備藏書”；還有猶太學者弗拉維奧·約瑟夫斯所著的史書，以及佩利的《道德哲學》。除了這些例外，我?guī)缀跏裁炊甲x。我能有如此毫不挑剔、兼收并蓄的品位，真要感謝命運的庇佑。

我得承認，每當看見那些披著書籍外衣的東西高踞書架之上，像假圣人一樣篡奪神殿、侵占圣堂、驅(qū)逐合法的主人時，我就會怒火中燒。取下一冊裝訂考究的“假書”，滿心希望它是本令人愉悅的好書，然后翻開那“看似書頁的東西”一瞧，卻發(fā)現(xiàn)是本乏味的《人口論》。期待的是斯蒂爾或法夸爾，找到的卻是亞當·斯密。我看見一系列擺放整齊、呆頭呆腦的百科全書（《圣公會百科》或《大都會百科》），全用俄羅斯軟革或摩洛哥山羊皮裝幀一新，而只需拿出這些優(yōu)質(zhì)皮革十分之一，就足以給我那些舊書換上新裝。我想讓帕拉塞爾斯的書煥然一新，讓雷蒙德·呂里的書在世人面前恢復本來的面貌。我從沒親眼見過那些冒牌貨，但我早就想扒下它們的外套，拿給我衣衫襤褸的老兵們?nèi)∨?

一本書首先得有結(jié)實的書脊和整齊的裝訂。富麗堂皇的裝幀倒在其次。即使你負擔得起，也不需要把各類書不加區(qū)分地統(tǒng)統(tǒng)精裝。例如，我不會把一套雜志做成全精裝，平裝或是俄羅斯軟革做書脊的半皮面裝訂2足矣。將莎士比亞或彌爾頓的作品（除非是初版）打扮得艷麗奪目，則完全是紈绔子弟的習氣。收藏這樣的書完全不是什么榮耀的事。

說來也怪，如果書的內(nèi)容非常一般，其外表也不能令書的主人感到高興和滿意。再次以湯姆遜的《四季》為例——我要堅持說，這本書的樣子以稍有磨損、略帶卷邊為佳。如果我們還沒有因吹毛求疵而忘記流動圖書館3的舊書《湯姆·瓊斯》或《威克菲爾德牧師傳》帶來的親切感覺，那么你就會知道，對于真正熱愛閱讀的人來說，那污損的書頁、那殘破的封皮，還有那俄羅斯軟革之外的書香，是多么美妙！它們向人們訴說，有成千上萬個拇指曾帶著喜悅翻過自己的書頁！它們向人們訴說，自己曾給某位孤獨的縫衣女工、制帽女工或是努力工作的女裝裁縫送去過歡樂！她做了漫長一天的針線活后，擠出了一小時的睡眠時間，一直讀書讀到半夜，在細讀動人故事的過程中忘卻了煩惱。誰還會挑剔它們沾滿污漬？我們怎能要求它們保持好的品相？

從某些方面來說，越是好書，對裝幀的要求越低。對于菲爾丁、斯摩萊特、斯特恩等人的著作，以及所有會“繁衍生息”的書籍——繁衍生息是大自然的規(guī)律——我們看見某一本書消逝并不會覺得太惋惜，因為我們知道它們會不斷重印、“永遠存在”。但當一本書既是善本又是珍本，甚至可能是碩果僅存的孤本，一旦它消逝——

天上火種何處尋，

再使人間見光明？4

比如，紐卡斯爾公爵夫人所寫的《紐卡斯爾公爵傳》就是這樣一本書。為了妥善保存這件珍寶，并表達對它的尊崇，用再貴重的寶盒、再結(jié)實的封套都不為過。

……

在讀彌爾頓的作品之前，需要先聽一首莊嚴肅穆的樂曲。然而，彌爾頓會把自己作品中的音樂帶給那些摒除雜念、側(cè)耳傾聽的讀者。

嚴冬之夜，與世隔絕，與不拘虛禮、溫文爾雅的莎士比亞做伴。在這個季節(jié)，適合讀他的《暴風雨》或《冬天的故事》。

這兩位詩人的作品，讓你不禁高聲朗讀——或讀給自己，或（如果湊巧的話）可與幾人分享。聽眾超過一人，這便成了朗誦會。

針對偶發(fā)事件的應(yīng)時之作，瀏覽即可，不宜朗讀。即便是優(yōu)秀現(xiàn)代小說，每當聽人朗讀，我仍深感厭惡。

大聲讀報讓人無法容忍。在某些銀行的辦公室里，有這么一個習慣：為了節(jié)約每個人的時間，會由一位最有學問的職員先讀《泰晤士報》或《紀事報》，然后為大家高聲復述報上內(nèi)容。盡管讀報者聲音洪亮、滔滔不絕，別人聽起來卻索然無味。在理發(fā)店或酒吧里，某個人會站起身來，讀上一段自認為是新發(fā)現(xiàn)的文章。另一個人則讀上一段自己選的內(nèi)容。如此一來，一張報紙就被分成了一個個小塊。很少讀書的人閱讀速度較慢，如果不是靠著這種辦法，這些人恐怕永遠也不能從頭到尾看完一張報紙。

報紙總能激起人們的好奇心，讀完后卻總是讓人失望。

南都飯店的一位黑衣紳士讀起報來真是沒完沒了！我聽膩了侍者不斷大聲吆喝：“《紀事報》到了，先生！”

夜晚走進一家飯館，點好了晚餐，此時在臨窗座位上發(fā)現(xiàn)兩三本過期的《鄉(xiāng)鎮(zhèn)雜志》（可能是從前某位客人不小心落下的），上面都是逗趣的親密照片（《高貴的情人和G夫人》、《動人的柏拉圖主義者和老花花公子》）以及類似的過時丑聞。還有什么能比這更令人開心？此時此地，你難道愿意拿它換一本正經(jīng)好書？

可憐的托賓最近失明了。對于沒法讀《失樂園》《考瑪斯》這類有分量的作品，他倒不覺得遺憾，因為別人可以讀給他聽。但他懷念親眼瀏覽雜志和逗樂的小冊子的樂趣。

我敢在教堂的林蔭道上讀書，被抓個現(xiàn)行我也不在乎，哪怕我讀的是《老實人》。

我還記得一次最出其不意的遭遇。當時，我躺在普里姆羅斯山的一片草地上，悠閑自在地讀著《帕美拉》，被一位熟識的小姐逮了個正著。書里倒沒什么見不得人的東西，但當她在我身邊坐下，似乎打算和我一起讀的時候，我卻希望手里是另外一本書。我們很禮貌地一起讀了幾頁，她發(fā)現(xiàn)作家不太對自己胃口，就起身走開了。愛刨根問底的讀者，我要請你猜一猜：在這種兩難處境中，我倆有一個人臉紅。那么，臉上浮現(xiàn)紅暈的究竟是那位仙女，還是這個牧童？你從我這里絕對套不出這個秘密。

我不是戶外閱讀的支持者。我在戶外難以集中精神。我認識一位唯一神教派5的牧師，每天上午10點到11點間，他一邊在斯諾希爾散步（當時還沒有斯金納大街），一邊研讀拉德納的作品。我很佩服他那種遠離塵囂、孑然獨行的風度，但同時也得承認，這種凝神貫注實在超出我的能力。如果換成是我，只要看見一個搬運工用的墊肩或一個面包籃，就會把熟知的神學知識拋到九霄云外，連五大論點6都會忘得一干二凈。

還有一類佇立街頭的讀者。我注視他們的時候，心中總是充滿深情。這些窮紳士沒錢買書或租書，只能從開放的書攤上偷點知識。書攤老板眼神冰冷，始終又恨又妒地瞪著他們，看這些人何時才肯放下書。這些人戰(zhàn)戰(zhàn)兢兢，翻過一頁又一頁，每時每刻都擔心老板禁止自己看書。但他們無法否認自己的滿足，他們“在擔驚受怕中獲得了樂趣”。馬丁·B. 年輕時就用這種方法，每天去書攤蹭書看，分次分批地讀了兩大本《克拉麗莎》。但書攤老板走過來問他到底打不打算買書，向他這番雄心壯志劈頭澆下一盆涼水。馬丁表示，自己一輩子都沒有像惶惶不安地蹭書時那么滿足。當代一位古怪的女詩人7以此為題材，寫下了兩段動人而質(zhì)樸的小詩。

我看見一個滿眼渴望的男孩，

在書攤前翻開一本書，

他狼吞虎咽地閱讀；

書攤老板突然將他認出，

他只聽見老板把話吐：

“先生，你從沒買過一本書，

所以在這里一本也不許讀?！?

男孩嘆著氣慢慢走開，

他恨不得自己從不識字，

也就無需在老吝嗇鬼的書攤停步。

窮人有許多辛酸，

富人則無需心煩。