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Detached Thoughts on Books and Reading　读书漫谈

所属教程:英语漫读

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2019年06月24日

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Detached Thoughts on Books and Reading

读书漫谈

Charles Lamb

查尔斯·兰姆

作者简介

查尔斯·兰姆（Charles Lamb，1775—1834），英国著名散文家和评论家。兰姆43岁时，《伦敦杂志》（London Magazine）主编向其约稿，内容形式不限，每月刊出一篇。为了不受拘束地写自己最熟悉、最愿意写的东西，兰姆借用老同事的名字“伊利亚”作为笔名，陆续发表了60多篇随笔散文。这些随笔散文后来结集出版，名为《伊利亚随笔》（The Essays of Elia）和《伊利亚续笔》（The Last Essays of Elia）。

本文节选自1833年出版的《伊利亚续笔》。文中，兰姆对自己读过的诗书戏剧娓娓道来，笔法夹叙夹议，格调亦庄亦谐。文中对“非书之书”（biblia a-biblia）的论述常被后人引用。

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.

把心思放在一本书的内容上，就是用别人苦思冥想的结果为自己取乐。如今我认为，有本领、有教养之人或许能从自己头脑的产物中获得极大的乐趣。

——《旧病复发》中的福平顿爵士1

爵士的这番妙语深深打动了我的一位绝顶聪明的友人，于是他为了提高自己的独创能力而彻底终止了阅读。我则冒着在这方面丢脸的危险承认，我花了大量时间关注别人的思想。我在别人的思索中虚度光阴，我爱在别人的思想中迷失自我。我不是在走路，便是在读书；我不能坐下来思考——书本替我思考。

我不反感任何书。我不会觉得沙夫茨伯里太高雅，或是觉得《魏尔德传》太低俗。我可以读一切我称为“书”的东西。有些东西徒具书的外表，我不把它们称为书。

在这个“非书之书”的目录里，我列入了法庭日程表、礼拜规则大全、袖珍书、前面有封面、背面有字的跳棋棋盘、科学论文、年鉴、法案汇编；休谟、吉本、罗伯逊、贝蒂、索姆·杰宁斯的作品，以及所有的“绅士必备藏书”；还有犹太学者弗拉维奥·约瑟夫斯所著的史书，以及佩利的《道德哲学》。除了这些例外，我几乎什么都读。我能有如此毫不挑剔、兼收并蓄的品位，真要感谢命运的庇佑。

我得承认，每当看见那些披着书籍外衣的东西高踞书架之上，像假圣人一样篡夺神殿、侵占圣堂、驱逐合法的主人时，我就会怒火中烧。取下一册装订考究的“假书”，满心希望它是本令人愉悦的好书，然后翻开那“看似书页的东西”一瞧，却发现是本乏味的《人口论》。期待的是斯蒂尔或法夸尔，找到的却是亚当·斯密。我看见一系列摆放整齐、呆头呆脑的百科全书（《圣公会百科》或《大都会百科》），全用俄罗斯软革或摩洛哥山羊皮装帧一新，而只需拿出这些优质皮革十分之一，就足以给我那些旧书换上新装。我想让帕拉塞尔斯的书焕然一新，让雷蒙德·吕里的书在世人面前恢复本来的面貌。我从没亲眼见过那些冒牌货，但我早就想扒下它们的外套，拿给我衣衫褴褛的老兵们取暖。

一本书首先得有结实的书脊和整齐的装订。富丽堂皇的装帧倒在其次。即使你负担得起，也不需要把各类书不加区分地统统精装。例如，我不会把一套杂志做成全精装，平装或是俄罗斯软革做书脊的半皮面装订2足矣。将莎士比亚或弥尔顿的作品（除非是初版）打扮得艳丽夺目，则完全是纨绔子弟的习气。收藏这样的书完全不是什么荣耀的事。

说来也怪，如果书的内容非常一般，其外表也不能令书的主人感到高兴和满意。再次以汤姆逊的《四季》为例——我要坚持说，这本书的样子以稍有磨损、略带卷边为佳。如果我们还没有因吹毛求疵而忘记流动图书馆3的旧书《汤姆·琼斯》或《威克菲尔德牧师传》带来的亲切感觉，那么你就会知道，对于真正热爱阅读的人来说，那污损的书页、那残破的封皮，还有那俄罗斯软革之外的书香，是多么美妙！它们向人们诉说，有成千上万个拇指曾带着喜悦翻过自己的书页！它们向人们诉说，自己曾给某位孤独的缝衣女工、制帽女工或是努力工作的女装裁缝送去过欢乐！她做了漫长一天的针线活后，挤出了一小时的睡眠时间，一直读书读到半夜，在细读动人故事的过程中忘却了烦恼。谁还会挑剔它们沾满污渍？我们怎能要求它们保持好的品相？

从某些方面来说，越是好书，对装帧的要求越低。对于菲尔丁、斯摩莱特、斯特恩等人的著作，以及所有会“繁衍生息”的书籍——繁衍生息是大自然的规律——我们看见某一本书消逝并不会觉得太惋惜，因为我们知道它们会不断重印、“永远存在”。但当一本书既是善本又是珍本，甚至可能是硕果仅存的孤本，一旦它消逝——

天上火种何处寻，

再使人间见光明？4

比如，纽卡斯尔公爵夫人所写的《纽卡斯尔公爵传》就是这样一本书。为了妥善保存这件珍宝，并表达对它的尊崇，用再贵重的宝盒、再结实的封套都不为过。

……

在读弥尔顿的作品之前，需要先听一首庄严肃穆的乐曲。然而，弥尔顿会把自己作品中的音乐带给那些摒除杂念、侧耳倾听的读者。

严冬之夜，与世隔绝，与不拘虚礼、温文尔雅的莎士比亚做伴。在这个季节，适合读他的《暴风雨》或《冬天的故事》。

这两位诗人的作品，让你不禁高声朗读——或读给自己，或（如果凑巧的话）可与几人分享。听众超过一人，这便成了朗诵会。

针对偶发事件的应时之作，浏览即可，不宜朗读。即便是优秀现代小说，每当听人朗读，我仍深感厌恶。

大声读报让人无法容忍。在某些银行的办公室里，有这么一个习惯：为了节约每个人的时间，会由一位最有学问的职员先读《泰晤士报》或《纪事报》，然后为大家高声复述报上内容。尽管读报者声音洪亮、滔滔不绝，别人听起来却索然无味。在理发店或酒吧里，某个人会站起身来，读上一段自认为是新发现的文章。另一个人则读上一段自己选的内容。如此一来，一张报纸就被分成了一个个小块。很少读书的人阅读速度较慢，如果不是靠着这种办法，这些人恐怕永远也不能从头到尾看完一张报纸。

报纸总能激起人们的好奇心，读完后却总是让人失望。

南都饭店的一位黑衣绅士读起报来真是没完没了！我听腻了侍者不断大声吆喝：“《纪事报》到了，先生！”

夜晚走进一家饭馆，点好了晚餐，此时在临窗座位上发现两三本过期的《乡镇杂志》（可能是从前某位客人不小心落下的），上面都是逗趣的亲密照片（《高贵的情人和G夫人》、《动人的柏拉图主义者和老花花公子》）以及类似的过时丑闻。还有什么能比这更令人开心？此时此地，你难道愿意拿它换一本正经好书？

可怜的托宾最近失明了。对于没法读《失乐园》《考玛斯》这类有分量的作品，他倒不觉得遗憾，因为别人可以读给他听。但他怀念亲眼浏览杂志和逗乐的小册子的乐趣。

我敢在教堂的林荫道上读书，被抓个现行我也不在乎，哪怕我读的是《老实人》。

我还记得一次最出其不意的遭遇。当时，我躺在普里姆罗斯山的一片草地上，悠闲自在地读着《帕美拉》，被一位熟识的小姐逮了个正着。书里倒没什么见不得人的东西，但当她在我身边坐下，似乎打算和我一起读的时候，我却希望手里是另外一本书。我们很礼貌地一起读了几页，她发现作家不太对自己胃口，就起身走开了。爱刨根问底的读者，我要请你猜一猜：在这种两难处境中，我俩有一个人脸红。那么，脸上浮现红晕的究竟是那位仙女，还是这个牧童？你从我这里绝对套不出这个秘密。

我不是户外阅读的支持者。我在户外难以集中精神。我认识一位唯一神教派5的牧师，每天上午10点到11点间，他一边在斯诺希尔散步（当时还没有斯金纳大街），一边研读拉德纳的作品。我很佩服他那种远离尘嚣、孑然独行的风度，但同时也得承认，这种凝神贯注实在超出我的能力。如果换成是我，只要看见一个搬运工用的垫肩或一个面包篮，就会把熟知的神学知识抛到九霄云外，连五大论点6都会忘得一干二净。

还有一类伫立街头的读者。我注视他们的时候，心中总是充满深情。这些穷绅士没钱买书或租书，只能从开放的书摊上偷点知识。书摊老板眼神冰冷，始终又恨又妒地瞪着他们，看这些人何时才肯放下书。这些人战战兢兢，翻过一页又一页，每时每刻都担心老板禁止自己看书。但他们无法否认自己的满足，他们“在担惊受怕中获得了乐趣”。马丁·B. 年轻时就用这种方法，每天去书摊蹭书看，分次分批地读了两大本《克拉丽莎》。但书摊老板走过来问他到底打不打算买书，向他这番雄心壮志劈头浇下一盆凉水。马丁表示，自己一辈子都没有像惶惶不安地蹭书时那么满足。当代一位古怪的女诗人7以此为题材，写下了两段动人而质朴的小诗。

我看见一个满眼渴望的男孩，

在书摊前翻开一本书，

他狼吞虎咽地阅读；

书摊老板突然将他认出，

他只听见老板把话吐：

“先生，你从没买过一本书，

所以在这里一本也不许读。”

男孩叹着气慢慢走开，

他恨不得自己从不识字，

也就无需在老吝啬鬼的书摊停步。

穷人有许多辛酸，

富人则无需心烦。