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Notes on Life and Letters-Part1_JOSEPH CONRAD (1857-1924)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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form I claim that indulgence to which all sinners against

themselves are entitled.



J. C.

1920.



PART I--LETTERS

BOOKS--1905.



I.

"I have not read this author's books, and if I have read them I



have forgotten what they were about."

These words are reported as having been uttered in our midst not a



hundred years ago, publicly, from the seat of justice, by a civic

magistrate. The words of our municipal rulers have a solemnity and



importance far above the words of other mortals, because our

municipal rulers more than any other variety of our governors and



masters represent the average wisdom, temperament" target="_blank" title="n.气质；性格">temperament, sense and virtue

of the community. This generalisation, it ought to be promptly



said in the interests of eternal justice (and recent friendship),

does not apply to the United States of America. There, if one may



believe the long and helpless indignations of their daily and

weekly Press, the majority of municipal rulers appear to be thieves



of a particularly irrepressible sort. But this by the way. My

concern is with a statement issuing from the average temperament" target="_blank" title="n.气质；性格">temperament



and the average wisdom of a great and wealthycommunity, and

uttered by a civic magistrate obviously without fear and without



reproach.

I confess I am pleased with his temper, which is that of prudence.



"I have not read the books," he says, and immediately he adds, "and

if I have read them I have forgotten." This is excellent caution.



And I like his style: it is unartificial and bears the stamp of

manly sincerity. As a reported piece of prose this declaration is



easy to read and not difficult to believe. Many books have not

been read; still more have been forgotten. As a piece of civic



oratory this declaration is strikingly effective. Calculated to

fall in with the bent of the popular mind, so familiar with all



forms of forgetfulness, it has also the power to stir up a subtle

emotion while it starts a train of thought--and what greater force



can be expected from human speech? But it is in naturalness that

this declaration is perfectlydelightful, for there is nothing more



natural than for a grave City Father to forget what the books he

has read once--long ago--in his giddy youth maybe--were about.



And the books in question are novels, or, at any rate, were written

as novels. I proceed thus cautiously (following my illustrious



example) because being without fear and desiring to remain as far

as possible without reproach, I confess at once that I have not



read them.

I have not; and of the million persons or more who are said to have



read them, I never met one yet with the talent of lucid exposition

sufficiently developed to give me a connected account of what they



are about. But they are books, part and parcel of humanity, and as

such, in their ever increasing, jostling multitude, they are worthy



of regard, admiration, and compassion.

Especially of compassion. It has been said a long time ago that



books have their fate. They have, and it is very much like the

destiny of man. They share with us the great incertitude of



ignominy or glory--of severe justice and senseless persecution--of

calumny and misunderstanding--the shame of undeserved success. Of



all the inanimate objects, of all men's creations, books are the

nearest to us, for they contain our very thought, our ambitions,



our indignations, our illusions, our fidelity to truth, and our

persistent leaning towards error. But most of all they resemble us



in their precarious hold on life. A bridge constructed according

to the rules of the art of bridge-building is certain of a long,



honourable and useful career. But a book as good in its way as the

bridge may perish obscurely on the very day of its birth. The art



of their creators is not sufficient to give them more than a moment

of life. Of the books born from the restlessness, the inspiration,






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