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The Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table-Part18_Oliver Wendell Holmes(1809-1894)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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it about with us for a life-time, though it has no second-hand and

is not a repeater, nor a musical watch, - though it is not



enamelled nor jewelled, - in short, though it has little beyond the

wheels required for a trustworthy instrument, added to a good face



and a pair of useful hands. The more wheels there are in a watch

or a brain, the more trouble they are to take care of. The



movements of exaltation which belong to genius are egotistic by

their very nature. A calm, clear mind, not subject to the spasms



and crises which are so often met with in creative or intensely

perceptive natures, is the best basis for love or friendship. -



Observe, I am talking about MINDS. I won't say, the more

intellect, the less capacity for loving; for that would do wrong to



the understanding and reason; - but, on the other hand, that the

brain often runs away with the heart's best blood, which gives the



world a few pages of wisdom or sentiment or poetry, instead of

making one other heart happy, I have no question.



If one's intimate in love or friendship cannot or does not share

all one's intellectual" target="_blank" title="n.知识分子">intellectual tastes or pursuits, that is a small matter.



Intellectual companions can be found easily in men and books.

After all, if we think of it, most of the world's loves and



friendships have been between people that could not read nor spell.

But to radiate the heat of the affections into a clod which absorbs



all that is poured into it, but never warms beneath the sunshine of

smiles or the pressure of hand or lip, - this is the great



martyrdom of sensitive beings, - most of all in that perpetual AUTO

DA FE where young womanhood is the sacrifice.



- You noticed, perhaps, what I just said about the loves and

friendships of illiterate persons, - that is, of the human race,



with a few exceptions here and there. I like books, - I was born

and bred among them, and have the easy feeling, when I get into



their presence, that a stable-boy has among horses. I don't think

I undervalue them either as companions or as instructors. But I



can't help remembering that the world's great men have not commonly

been great scholars, nor its great scholars great men. The Hebrew



patriarchs had small libraries, I think, if any; yet they represent

to our imaginations a very complete idea of manhood, and, I think,



if we could ask in Abraham to dine with us men of letters next

Saturday, we should feel honored by his company.



What I wanted to say about books is this: that there are times in

which every active mind feels itself above any and all human books.



- I think a man must have a good opinion of himself, Sir, - said

the divinity-student, - who should feel himself above Shakspeare at



any time.

My young friend, - I replied, - the man who is never conscious of a



state of feeling or of intellectual" target="_blank" title="n.知识分子">intellectual effort entirely beyond

expression by any form of words whatsoever is a mere creature of



language. I can hardly believe there are any such men. Why, think

for a moment of the power of music. The nerves that make us alive



to it spread out (so the Professor tells me) in the most sensitive

region of the marrow just where it is widening to run upwards into



the hemispheres. It has its seat in the region of sense rather

than of thought. Yet it produces a continuous and, as it were,



logical sequence of emotional and intellectual" target="_blank" title="n.知识分子">intellectual changes; but how

different from trains of thought proper! how entirely beyond the



reach of symbols! - Think of human passions as compared with all

phrases! Did you ever hear of a man's growing lean by the reading



of "Romeo and Juliet," or blowing his brains out because Desdemona

was maligned? There are a good many symbols, even, that are more



expressive than words. I remember a young wife who had to part

with her husband for a time. She did not write a mournful poem;



indeed, she was a silent person, and perhaps hardly said a word

about it; but she quietly turned of a deep orange color with



jaundice. A great many people in this world have but one form of

rhetoric for their profoundest experiences, - namely, to waste away



and die. When a man can READ, his paroxysm of feeling is passing.

When he can READ, his thought has slackened its hold. - You talk



about reading Shakspeare, using him as an expression for the

highest intellect, and you wonder that any common person should be



so presumptuous as to suppose his thought can rise above the text

which lies before him. But think a moment. A child's reading of



Shakspeare is one thing, and Coleridge's or Schlegel's reading of




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