"Bennett, Arnold - Literary Taste. (How To Form It)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Bennett Arnold)

though the one is the most perfect of distractions, and though the other
is unsurpassed by any other accomplishment in elegance
or in power to impress the universal snobbery of civilised mankind.
Literature, instead of being an accessory, is the fundamental
*sine qua non* of complete living. I am extremely anxious to avoid
rhetorical exaggerations. I do not think I am guilty of one
in asserting that he who has not been "presented to the freedom"
of literature has not wakened up out of his prenatal sleep.
He is merely not born. He can't see; he can't hear;
he can't feel, in any full sense. He can only eat his dinner.
What more than anything else annoys people who know
the true function of literature, and have profited thereby,
is the spectacle of so many thousands of individuals going about
under the delusion that they are alive, when, as a fact,
they are no nearer being alive than a bear in winter.


I will tell you what literature is! No--I only wish I could.
But I can't. No one can. Gleams can be thrown on the secret,
inklings given, but no more. I will try to give you an inkling.
And, to do so, I will take you back into your own history,
or forward into it. That evening when you went for a walk
with your faithful friend, the friend from whom you hid nothing--
or almost nothing...! You were, in truth, somewhat inclined
to hide from him the particular matter which monopolised your mind
that evening, but somehow you contrived to get on to it,
drawn by an overpowering fascination. And as your faithful friend
was sympathetic and discreet, and flattered you by a respectful curiosity,
you proceeded further and further into the said matter,
growing more and more confidential, until at last you cried out,
in a terrific whisper: "My boy, she is simply miraculous!"
At that moment you were in the domain of literature.


Let me explain. Of course, in the ordinary acceptation of the word,
she was not miraculous. Your faithful friend had never noticed
that she was miraculous, nor had about forty thousand other
fairly keen observers. She was just a girl. Troy had not been
burnt for her. A girl cannot be called a miracle. If a girl
is to be called a miracle, then you might call pretty nearly
anything a miracle.... That is just it: you might. You can. You ought.
Amid all the miracles of the universe you had just wakened up to one.
You were full of your discovery. You were under a divine impulsion
to impart that discovery. You had a strong sense of the marvellous
beauty of something, and you had to share it. You were in a passion
about something, and you had to vent yourself on somebody.
You were drawn towards the whole of the rest of the human race.
Mark the effect of your mood and utterance on your faithful friend.
He knew that she was not a miracle. No other person could have
made him believe that she was a miracle. But you, by the force and