“We have only to compare”—with those words the cat is out
of the bag, and the true complexity of reading is admitted. The
first process, to receive impressions with the utmost
understanding, is only half the process of reading; it must be
completed, if we are to get the whole pleasure from a book, by
another. We must pass judgment upon these multitudinous
impressions; we must make of these fleeting shapes one that is hard
and lasting. But not directly. Wait for the dust of reading to
settle; for the conflict and the questioning to die down; walk,
talk, pull the dead petals from a rose, or fall asleep. Then
suddenly without our willing it, for it is thus that Nature
undertakes these transitions, the book will return, but
differently. It will float to the top of the mind as a whole. And
the book as a whole is different from the book received currently
in separate phrases. Details now fit themselves into their places.
We see the shape from start to finish; it is a barn, a pig-sty, or
a cathedral. Now then we can compare book with book as we compare
building with building. But this act of comparison means that our
attitude has changed; we are no longer the friends of the writer,
but his judges; and just as we cannot be too sympathetic as
friends, so as judges we cannot be too severe. Are they not
criminals, books that have wasted our time and sympathy; are they
not the most insidious enemies of society, corrupters, defilers,
the writers of false books, faked books, books that fill the air
with decay and disease? Let us then be severe in our judgments; let
us compare each book with the greatest of its kind. There they hang
in the mind the shapes of the books we have read solidified by the
judgments we have passed on them—Robinson Crusoe, Emma, The Return
of the Native. Compare the novels with these—even the latest and
least of novels has a right to be judged with the best. And so with
poetry—when the intoxication of rhythm has died down and the
splendour of words has faded a visionary shape will return to us
and this must be compared with Lear, with Phedre,[5] with The
Prelude;[6] or if not with these, with whatever is the best or
seems to us to be the best in its own kind. And we may be sure that
the newness of new poetry and fiction is its most superficial
quality and that we have only to alter slightly, not to recast, the
standards by which we have judged the old.
of the bag, and the true complexity of reading is admitted. The
first process, to receive impressions with the utmost
understanding, is only half the process of reading; it must be
completed, if we are to get the whole pleasure from a book, by
another. We must pass judgment upon these multitudinous
impressions; we must make of these fleeting shapes one that is hard
and lasting. But not directly. Wait for the dust of reading to
settle; for the conflict and the questioning to die down; walk,
talk, pull the dead petals from a rose, or fall asleep. Then
suddenly without our willing it, for it is thus that Nature
undertakes these transitions, the book will return, but
differently. It will float to the top of the mind as a whole. And
the book as a whole is different from the book received currently
in separate phrases. Details now fit themselves into their places.
We see the shape from start to finish; it is a barn, a pig-sty, or
a cathedral. Now then we can compare book with book as we compare
building with building. But this act of comparison means that our
attitude has changed; we are no longer the friends of the writer,
but his judges; and just as we cannot be too sympathetic as
friends, so as judges we cannot be too severe. Are they not
criminals, books that have wasted our time and sympathy; are they
not the most insidious enemies of society, corrupters, defilers,
the writers of false books, faked books, books that fill the air
with decay and disease? Let us then be severe in our judgments; let
us compare each book with the greatest of its kind. There they hang
in the mind the shapes of the books we have read solidified by the
judgments we have passed on them—Robinson Crusoe, Emma, The Return
of the Native. Compare the novels with these—even the latest and
least of novels has a right to be judged with the best. And so with
poetry—when the intoxication of rhythm has died down and the
splendour of words has faded a visionary shape will return to us
and this must be compared with Lear, with Phedre,[5] with The
Prelude;[6] or if not with these, with whatever is the best or
seems to us to be the best in its own kind. And we may be sure that
the newness of new poetry and fiction is its most superficial
quality and that we have only to alter slightly, not to recast, the
standards by which we have judged the old.
It would be foolish, then, to pretend that the second part of
reading, to judge, to compare, is as simple as the first—to open
the mind wide to the fast flocking of innumerable impressions. To
continue reading without the book before you, To hold one
shadow-shape against another, to have read widely enough and with
enough understanding to make such comparisons alive and
illuminating—that is difficult; it is still more difficult to
press further and to say, “Not only is the book of this sort, but
it is of this value; here it fails; here it succeeds; this is bad;
that is good.” To carry out this part of a reader’s duty needs
such imagination, insight, and learning that it is hard to conceive
any one mind sufficiently endowed; impossible for the most
self-confident to find more than the seeds of such powers in
himself. Would it not be wiser, then, to remit this part of reading
and to allow the critics, the gowned and furred authorities of the
library, to decide the question of the book’s absolute value for
us? Yet how impossible! We may stress the value of sympathy; we may
try to sink our own identity as we read. But we know that we cannot
sympathise wholly or immerse ourselves wholly; there is always a
demon in us who whispers, “I hate, I love,” and we cannot silence
him. Indeed, it is precisely because we hate and we love that our
relation with the poets and novelists is so intimate that we find
the presence of another person intolerable. And even if the results
are abhorrent and our judgments are wrong, still our taste, the
nerve of sensation that sends shocks through us, is our chief
illuminating; we learn through feeling; we cannot suppress our own
idiosyncrasy without impoverishing it. But as time goes on perhaps
we can train our taste; perhaps we can make it submit to some
control. When it has fed greedily and lavishly upon books of all
sorts—poetry, fiction, history, biography—and has stopped reading
and looked for long spaces upon the variety, the incongruity of the
living world, we shall find that it is changing a little; it is not
so greedy, it is more reflective. It will begin to bring us not
merely judgments on particular books, but it will tell us that
there is a quality common to certain books. Listen, it will say,
what shall we call this? And it will read us perhaps Lear and then
perhaps Agamenon[7] in order to bring out that common quality.
Thus, with our taste to guide us, we shall venture beyond the
particular book in search of qualities that group books together;
we shall give them names and thus frame a rule that brings order
into our perceptions. We shall gain a further and a rarer pleasure
from that discrimination. But as a rule only lives when it is
perpetually broken by contact with the books themselves—nothing is
easier and more stultifying than to make rules which exist out
touch with facts, in a vacuum—now at least, in order to steady
ourselves in this difficult attempt, it may be well to turn to the
very rare writers who are able to enlighten us upon literature as
an art. Coleridge[8] and Dryden[9] and Johnson,[10] in their
considered criticism, the poets and novelists themselves in their
considered sayings are often surprisingly relevant; they light up
and solidity the vague ideas that have been tumbling in the misty
depths of our minds. But they are only able to help us if we come
to them laden with questions and suggestions won honestly in the
course of our own reading. They can do nothing for us if we herd
ourselves under their authority and lie down like sheep in the
shade of a hedge. We can only understand their ruling when it comes
in conflict with our own and vanquishes it.
reading, to judge, to compare, is as simple as the first—to open
the mind wide to the fast flocking of innumerable impressions. To
continue reading without the book before you, To hold one
shadow-shape against another, to have read widely enough and with
enough understanding to make such comparisons alive and
illuminating—that is difficult; it is still more difficult to
press further and to say, “Not only is the book of this sort, but
it is of this value; here it fails; here it succeeds; this is bad;
that is good.” To carry out this part of a reader’s duty needs
such imagination, insight, and learning that it is hard to conceive
any one mind sufficiently endowed; impossible for the most
self-confident to find more than the seeds of such powers in
himself. Would it not be wiser, then, to remit this part of reading
and to allow the critics, the gowned and furred authorities of the
library, to decide the question of the book’s absolute value for
us? Yet how impossible! We may stress the value of sympathy; we may
try to sink our own identity as we read. But we know that we cannot
sympathise wholly or immerse ourselves wholly; there is always a
demon in us who whispers, “I hate, I love,” and we cannot silence
him. Indeed, it is precisely because we hate and we love that our
relation with the poets and novelists is so intimate that we find
the presence of another person intolerable. And even if the results
are abhorrent and our judgments are wrong, still our taste, the
nerve of sensation that sends shocks through us, is our chief
illuminating; we learn through feeling; we cannot suppress our own
idiosyncrasy without impoverishing it. But as time goes on perhaps
we can train our taste; perhaps we can make it submit to some
control. When it has fed greedily and lavishly upon books of all
sorts—poetry, fiction, history, biography—and has stopped reading
and looked for long spaces upon the variety, the incongruity of the
living world, we shall find that it is changing a little; it is not
so greedy, it is more reflective. It will begin to bring us not
merely judgments on particular books, but it will tell us that
there is a quality common to certain books. Listen, it will say,
what shall we call this? And it will read us perhaps Lear and then
perhaps Agamenon[7] in order to bring out that common quality.
Thus, with our taste to guide us, we shall venture beyond the
particular book in search of qualities that group books together;
we shall give them names and thus frame a rule that brings order
into our perceptions. We shall gain a further and a rarer pleasure
from that discrimination. But as a rule only lives when it is
perpetually broken by contact with the books themselves—nothing is
easier and more stultifying than to make rules which exist out
touch with facts, in a vacuum—now at least, in order to steady
ourselves in this difficult attempt, it may be well to turn to the
very rare writers who are able to enlighten us upon literature as
an art. Coleridge[8] and Dryden[9] and Johnson,[10] in their
considered criticism, the poets and novelists themselves in their
considered sayings are often surprisingly relevant; they light up
and solidity the vague ideas that have been tumbling in the misty
depths of our minds. But they are only able to help us if we come
to them laden with questions and suggestions won honestly in the
course of our own reading. They can do nothing for us if we herd
ourselves under their authority and lie down like sheep in the
shade of a hedge. We can only understand their ruling when it comes
in conflict with our own and vanquishes it.
If this is so, if to read a book as it should be read calls
for the rarest qualities of imagination, insight, and judgment, you
may perhaps, conclude that literature is a very complex art and
that it is unlikely that we shall be able, even after a lifetime of
reading, to make any valuable contribution to its criticism. We
must remain readers; we shall not put on the further glory that
belongs to those rare beings who are also critics. But still we
have our responsibilities as readers and even our importance. The
standards we raise and the judgments we pass steal into the air and
become part of the atmosphere which writers breathe as they work.
An influence is created which tells upon them even if it never
finds its way into print. And that influence, if it were well
instructed, vigorous and individual and sincere, might be of great
value now when criticism is necessarily in abeyance; when books
pass in review like the procession of animals in a shooting
gallery, and the critic has only one second in which to load and
aim and shoot and may well be pardoned if he mistakes rabbits for
tigers, eagles for bar-door fowls, or misses altogether and wastes
his shot upon some peaceful sow grazing in a further field. If
behind the erratic gunfire of the press the author felt that that
there was another kind of criticism, the opinion of people reading
for the love of reading, slowly and unprofessionally, and judging
with great sympathy and yet with great severity, might this not
improve the quality of his work? And if by our means books were to
become stronger, richer, and more varied, that would be an end
worth reaching.
for the rarest qualities of imagination, insight, and judgment, you
may perhaps, conclude that literature is a very complex art and
that it is unlikely that we shall be able, even after a lifetime of
reading, to make any valuable contribution to its criticism. We
must remain readers; we shall not put on the further glory that
belongs to those rare beings who are also critics. But still we
have our responsibilities as readers and even our importance. The
standards we raise and the judgments we pass steal into the air and
become part of the atmosphere which writers breathe as they work.
An influence is created which tells upon them even if it never
finds its way into print. And that influence, if it were well
instructed, vigorous and individual and sincere, might be of great
value now when criticism is necessarily in abeyance; when books
pass in review like the procession of animals in a shooting
gallery, and the critic has only one second in which to load and
aim and shoot and may well be pardoned if he mistakes rabbits for
tigers, eagles for bar-door fowls, or misses altogether and wastes
his shot upon some peaceful sow grazing in a further field. If
behind the erratic gunfire of the press the author felt that that
there was another kind of criticism, the opinion of people reading
for the love of reading, slowly and unprofessionally, and judging
with great sympathy and yet with great severity, might this not
improve the quality of his work? And if by our means books were to
become stronger, richer, and more varied, that would be an end
worth reaching.
Yet who reads to bring about an end however desirable? Are
there not some pursuits that we practice because they are good in
themselves, and some pleasures that are final? And is not this
among them? I have sometimes dreamt, at least, that when the Day of
Judgment dawns and the great conquerors and lawyers and statesmen
come to receive their rewards—their crowns, their laurels, their
names carved indelibly upon imperishable marble—the Almighty will
turn to Peter[11] and will say, not without a certain envy when He
sees us coming with our books under our arms, “Look, these need no
reward. We have nothing to give them here. They have loved
reading.”
there not some pursuits that we practice because they are good in
themselves, and some pleasures that are final? And is not this
among them? I have sometimes dreamt, at least, that when the Day of
Judgment dawns and the great conquerors and lawyers and statesmen
come to receive their rewards—their crowns, their laurels, their
names carved indelibly upon imperishable marble—the Almighty will
turn to Peter[11] and will say, not without a certain envy when He
sees us coming with our books under our arms, “Look, these need no
reward. We have nothing to give them here. They have loved
reading.”
Questions for Comprehension and Consideration:
1. The title of the essay gives a sense of offering advice on
reading and the author begins her essay by saying “In the first
place, I want to emphasize the note of interrogation at the end of
my title.” Why does the author start her essay in this way and
what does she really want to point out in her first paragraph which
serves as her starting point when she offers ideas and suggestions
on reading.
reading and the author begins her essay by saying “In the first
place, I want to emphasize the note of interrogation at the end of
my title.” Why does the author start her essay in this way and
what does she really want to point out in her first paragraph which
serves as her starting point when she offers ideas and suggestions
on reading.
2. How do you understand the author’s idea of “Do not
dictate to your author; try to become him. Be his fellow-worker and
accomplice” in paragraph 3. How does your reading experience agree
or disagree with the author’s advice?
dictate to your author; try to become him. Be his fellow-worker and
accomplice” in paragraph 3. How does your reading experience agree
or disagree with the author’s advice?
3. Virginia Woolf says “the quickest way to understand the
elements of what a novelist is doing is not to read, but to
write;” and she also gives an example to support it. What do you
think of the example? Have you ever had such experience of
“experimenting with dangers and difficulties of words” ? If you
have how do you comment your experience?
elements of what a novelist is doing is not to read, but to
write;” and she also gives an example to support it. What do you
think of the example? Have you ever had such experience of
“experimenting with dangers and difficulties of words” ? If you
have how do you comment your experience?
4. The author mentions three writers in paragraph 4 and points
out that although they depict things totally different they share
one same important element. What is it? Read at least one novel of
each writer mentioned and try to understand the different worlds
the authors created and see whether you agree to the comment
Virginia Woolf made or not.
out that although they depict things totally different they share
one same important element. What is it? Read at least one novel of
each writer mentioned and try to understand the different worlds
the authors created and see whether you agree to the comment
Virginia Woolf made or not.
5. What is the true complexity of reading and what are the
reading processes Virginia Woolf depicts? How do the processes
agree or disagree to your reading experience?
reading processes Virginia Woolf depicts? How do the processes
agree or disagree to your reading experience?
6. In the difficult process of reading the author advises us
to read some very rare writers who are able to enlighten us upon
literature of art. To what extent and on what circumstance they are
able to help us?
to read some very rare writers who are able to enlighten us upon
literature of art. To what extent and on what circumstance they are
able to help us?
7. In what sense does Virginia Woolf think that common readers
have responsibilities and importance in raising the standards and
the judgment of reading?
have responsibilities and importance in raising the standards and
the judgment of reading?
8. How do you feel the author’s rhetoric question “Are there
not some pursuits that we practice because they are good in
themselves, … and is not this (reading) among them”? Write a
passage with concrete examples to show your true understanding of
it.
not some pursuits that we practice because they are good in
themselves, … and is not this (reading) among them”? Write a
passage with concrete examples to show your true understanding of
it.
——————————————————————————–
注释：
[1] the battle of Waterloo Waterloo is a town in Belgium, the
place where Napoleon Bonaparte(1769—1821) and his army was totally
defeated.
place where Napoleon Bonaparte(1769—1821) and his army was totally
defeated.
[2] Thomas Love Peacock (1785–1866)，British novelist and
poet.
poet.
[3] Anthony Trollope (1815—82), British novelist.
[4] George Meredith(1828–1909)，British novelist and
poet.
poet.
[5] Phedre French tragic poet Jean Racine’s(1639—1699)
works.
works.
[6] The Prelude British poet William Wordsworth’s(1770—1850)
long poem.
long poem.
[7] Agamenon The ancient Greece great tragic poet
Aischulos’(520 BC—456BC) works.
Aischulos’(520 BC—456BC) works.
[8] Samuel Taylor Coleridge(1772—1834) British romantic
poet.
poet.
[9] John Dryden(1631—1700) British poet and critic.
[10] Samuel Johnson(1709—1784) British writer.
[11] Peter one of the twelve disciple of Jesus Christ.
“我们只要比较一下，”，事情就很清楚，阅读的奥秘就在于此。以尽可能的理解去感受，这只是阅读的前一半过程，如果想获得一本书的全部愉悦，还得完成另一个过程，即对各种感受进行梳理和鉴别；把变幻不定的印象固化为明确和坚实的感受。但这不必操之过急，应静待阅读的“尘埃落定”，你的困惑和质疑已经沉淀之后；出去走走，和朋友聊聊，拣去玫瑰花叶上的枯瓣，或者上床睡一觉。就这样，不经意间，造化之神在我们全然不知中完成了它内化转变的过程，书重又给我们带来全新的意义。它以其完整的意义浮现在我们心际。而完整地领会全书，和只领会它的片言只语，是不可同日而语的。书中的细节已各得其所，我们从头到尾看清了它的整体形象，正如谷仓、猪圈或教堂。现在我们就可以在书与书之间进行比较了，就像比较不同的建筑一样。这比较意味着我们的态度起了变化，我们不再是作者的朋友，而是他的审判者；正如作朋友我们不能不充满友情一样，作审判者我们就不能不严厉了。那些耗费我们时间和情感的书，其作者难道不能被看作是罪犯吗？那些充满谬误、捏造、腐朽与弊病的书，其作者难道不是社会最阴险的敌人，不是腐化者和堕落者吗？我们必须做出严厉裁判；我们把每本书都与其同类中最杰出的作品来做对比。这类作品的特点我们已经了解，我们对它们的裁决更加深了这种了解，比如〈鲁滨孙漂流记〉、〈爱玛〉与〈还乡〉等。把你读到的小说与它们相比—-即便最新和最次的小说，也都应该与这些最杰出的小说进行对比评判。诗歌同样如此。当令人陶醉的韵律被淡忘，当诗中词语的美妙意象已经消失，一种视觉形象会出现在我们的脑际，不妨把它与〈李尔王〉、〈费德尔〉和〈序曲〉相比，即使不与它们相比，也要与别的最好的，或者我们认为最好的同类作品相比。可以肯定的是，新创作的诗歌和小说的新颖之处，就在于它们的肤浅，我们无须完全改变评判过去作品的那些标准，只要稍做变动即可。
如果认为阅读的第二个阶段，即评判和比较阶段（整理那一涌而至的众多印象），与第一个阶段一样简单，那是不明智的。搁下手中的书继续阅读，心中对种种意象进行比较，同时还要广泛阅读、充分领悟，以确保这样的比较能形象而富有意义—-这无疑是困难的。如果再加上这样的要求，那就难上加难了：“不仅这类书如此，这种审视也很普遍；这里处理不够妥当；这里很成功；这地方是个败笔，这儿犹如神来之笔”，等等。想胜任这一职责的读者，必须具有非同凡响的想象力、洞察力和学识，这绝非易事，最自信者也恐难找到自身这样的潜能。那么，免去阅读的这一过程，让批评家、让图书馆里衣冠楚楚的权威来为我们决定书的最终价值这个问题，难道不更明智些吗？非也！我们可以强调同感的价值；我们可以在阅读中忘掉自己。但我们清楚，我们不可能与别人完全同感，也不可能完全忘掉自我，内心深处似乎总有一个无法平息的“魔鬼”在低语：“我恨！我爱！”。而正是这爱恨之情，密切了我们与诗人和小说家之间的关系，让我们无法容忍另一人横亘其中。即便结果不符，评判不对，但阅读中我们的品位，既震撼我们的感觉，无疑都深深打动和启迪了我们。我们通过感受获知；压抑个性会导致它的弱化和枯竭。而随着时间的推移，我们还可以培养自己的品位，使之得到某种调控。饱览各种书籍（诗歌、小说、历史、传记）之后，当你停下阅读，面对更广泛的空间，即真实大千世界中的各种矛盾时，你会发现，你的品位变化无几，它不急切，而是更加深思熟虑。它不仅令我们对具体书籍作出评判，还会告诉我们某些书所具备的类似的共同特点。注意，它会告诉我们什么是共同特点。它会引领我们去读《李尔王》，然后再读《阿伽门农》，从而去发现这共同特点。因此，有品位作向导，我们可以超越具体作品，去寻找把书籍归于一类的特点，然后为这些特点命名，并由此建构出帮助我们感知的规则。从这种辨别中，我们获得更深入、更珍贵的愉悦。然而，规则只有在与书籍本身碰撞过程中不断被打破，才会更有生命力，因此，没有什么比凭空制定规则更容易、也更笨拙了。为了能镇定地完成这一困难任务，我们不妨转向那些很独特的作家，是他们让我们认识了作为艺术的文学。柯尔律治、德莱顿和约翰逊在他们严谨的批评中，诗人和小说家在他们深思熟虑的表达中，均显出了惊人的英雄所见。他们展现并固化了我们内心混沌深处那些翻腾、模糊的思想。而只有当我们在阅读中真切产生了问题和获取了建议，才读有所获。如果只是一味顺从其权威，就像躺在灌木荫处的羊群那样，是别指望获得帮助的。只有当他们的规则与我们的发生碰撞并征服我们时，我们才能理解之。
如果读书之道就是如此，如果读书需要最珍贵的想象力、洞察力和评判力，你也许会得出这样的结论，既文学实在是一门非常复杂的艺术，即便读了一辈子的书，也很难对文学评论做出有价值的贡献。我们始终都是读者，我们不必戴上只属于被称为批评家的少数人才能戴上的荣耀桂冠。但作为读者，我们依然有自己的责任和重要地位。我们提出的标准和做出的评判，潜移默化地成作家进行创作的氛围的一部分。即便没有出版，它们也会对他们产生影响。而这影响，如果导引得好，有活力、有个性，且诚挚真切，会非常有价值。尤其是当批评正处于一种必需的搁置状态之时，情形更是如此。书籍进入评论，就像动物进入射击场，评论家只有短短一秒种时间装弹、瞄准和射击，所以如果他把兔子看成老虎，把老鹰看成百姓的家禽，或者完全脱靶，或者误中了正在附近田野里安详吃草的牧牛，都应该原谅他们。如果作者能在评论界变幻莫测的炮火之外感受到另一种批评，感受到那些因爱读书而读书的人们的看法—-这些人的评论也许不很及时，不很专业，但却很共鸣，很认真—-这难道不足以促使他提高作品的质量吗？如果通过我们的努力，图书的世界变得更有影响力，更丰富，更多样，这难道不是值得我们追寻的目标吗？
当然，谁又会在阅读时老想着实现一个目标呢？无论这个目标多么令人向往？生活中有些事我们追求，不就是因为这追求本身很值，而我们又乐在其中吗？而读书，难道不是这些乐事中的一个吗？我有时遐想，当世界审判日最终来临，那些伟大的征服者、律师、政治家前来领取他们的奖赏：王冠、桂冠和永久镂刻在不会磨灭的大理石上的名字时，上帝会转向圣·彼得，而当他看到我们夹着书向他走来时，他会不无妒意地说，“看啊，这些人不需要任何奖赏。我们这里也没有可以给他们的奖。他们热爱读书。”
（何朝阳，中国科学技术大学外语系）
文/Virginia Woolf 译/何朝阳
文章引用自：http://education.163.com/06/0411/09/2EDT24OM00290164.html
