How to Read a Book: The Classic Guide to Intelligent Reading (18 page)

In the literature of science, this distinction is observed whenever the difference is emphasized between the proof of a proposition by reasoning and its establishment by experiment.

Galileo, in his Two New Sciences, speaks of illustrating by experiment conclusions that have already been reached by mathematical demonstration. And in a concluding chapter of his book On the Motion of the Heart, the great physiologist William Harvey writes: "It has been shown by reason and experiment that blood by the beat of the ventricles flows through the lungs and heart and is pumped to the whole body." Sometimes it is possible to support a proposition both by reasoning from other general truths and by offering experimental evidence. Sometimes only one method of argument is available.

In the third place, observe what things the author says he must assume, what he says can be proved or otherwise evidenced, and what need not be proved because it is self-evident.

He may honestly try to tell you what all his assumptions are, or he may just as honestly leave you to find them out for yourself. Obviously, not everything can be proved, just as not everything can be defined. If every proposition had to be proved, there would be no beginning to any proof. Such things as axioms and assumptions or postulates are needed for the proof of other propositions. If these other propositions are proved, they can, of course, be used as premises in further proofs.

Every line of argument, in other words, must start somewhere. Basically, there are two ways or places in which it can start: with assumptions agreed on between writer and reader, or with what are called self-evident propositions, which neither the writer nor reader can deny. In the first case, the assumptions can be anything, so long as agreement exists. The second case requires some further comment here.

In recent times, it has become commonplace to refer to self-evident propositions as "tautologies"; the feeling behind the term is sometimes one of contempt for the trivial, or a suspicion of legerdemain. Rabbits are being pulled out of a hat. You put the truth in by defining your words, and then pull it out as if you were surprised to find it there. That, however, is not always the case.

For example, there is a considerable difference between a proposition such as "a father of a father is a grandfather," and a proposition such as "the whole is greater than its parts." The former statement is a tautology; the proposition is contained in the definition of the words; it only thinly conceals the verbal stipulation, "Let us call the parent of a parent a 'grandparent.' "

But that is far from being the case with the second proposition.

Let us try to see why.

The statement, "The whole is greater than its parts," expresses our understanding of things as they are and of their relationships, which would be the same no matter what words we used or how we set up our linguistic conventions. Finite quantitative wholes exist and they have definite finite parts; for example, this page can be cut in half or in quarters. Now, as we understand a finite whole (that is, any finite whole) and as we understand a definite part of a finite whole, we understand the whole to be greater than the part, or the part to be less than the whole. So far is this from being a mere verbal matter that we cannot define the meaning of the words "whole" and "part"; these words express primitive or indefinable notions. As we are unable to define them separately, all we can do is express our understanding of whole and part by a statement of how wholes and parts are related.

The statement is axiomatic or self-evident in the sense that its opposite is immediately seen to be false. We can use the word "part" for this page, and the word "whole" for a half of this page after cutting it in two, but we cannot think that the page before it is cut is less than the half of it that we have in our hand after we have cut it. However we use language, our understanding of finite wholes and their definite parts is such that we are compelled to say that we know that the whole is greater than the part, and what we know is the relation between existent wholes and their parts, not something about the use of words or their meanings.

Such self-evident propositions, then, have the status of indemonstrable but also undeniable truths. They are based on common experience alone and are part of common-sense knowledge, for they belong to no organized body of knowledge; they do not belong to philosophy or mathematics any more than they belong to science or history. That is why, incidentally, Euclid called them "common notions." They are also instructive, despite the fact that Locke, for example, did not think they were. He could see no difference between a proposition that really does not instruct, such as the one about the grandparent, and one that does-one that teaches us something we would not otherwise know-such as the one about parts and wholes. And those moderns who refer to all such propositions as tautologies make the same mistake. They do not see that some of the propositions they call "tautologies" really add to our knowledge, while others, of course, do not.

Finding the Solutions

These three rules of analytical reading-about terms, propositions, and arguments-can be brought to a head in an eighth rule, which governs the last step in the interpretation of a book's content. More than that, it ties together the first stage of analytical reading (outlining the structure) and the second stage (interpreting the contents) .

The last step in your attempt to discover what a book is about was the discovery of the major problems that the author tried to solve in the course of his book. (As you will recall, this was covered by Rule 4.) Now, after you have come to terms with him and grasped his propositions and arguments, you should check what you have found by addressing yourself to some further questions. Which of the problems that the author tried to solve did he succeed in solving? In the course of solving these, did he raise any new ones? Of the problems that he failed to solve, old or new, which did the author himself know he had failed on? A good writer, like a good reader, should know whether a problem has been solved or not, although of course it is likely to cost the reader less pain to acknowledge the situation.

This final step in interpretive reading is covered by RULE 8. FIND OUT WHAT THE AUTHOR'S SOLUTIONS ARE. When you have applied this rule, and the three that precede it in interpretive reading, you can feel reasonably sure that you have managed to understand the book. H you started with a book that was over your head-one, therefore, that was able to teach you something-you have come a long way. More than that, you are now able to complete your analytical reading of the book. The third and last stage of the job will be relatively easy. You have been keeping your eyes and your mind open and your mouth shut. Up to this point, you have been following the author. From this point on, you are going to have a chance to argue with the author and express yourself.

The Second Stage of Analytical Reading

We have now described the second stage of analytical reading. Another way to say this is that we have now set forth the materials for answering the second basic question that you must ask about a book, or indeed anything that you read. You will recall that that second question is What is being said in detail, and how? Applying Rules 5 through 8 clearly helps you to answer this question. When you have come to terms with the author, found his key propositions and arguments, and identified his solutions of the problems that he faced, you will know what he is saying in his book, and you are thus prepared to go on to ask the final two basic questions about it.

Since we have now completed another stage in the analytical reading process, let us, as before, pause a moment to write out the rules of this stage for review.

The Second Stage of Analytical Reading, or Rules for Finding What a Book Says

(Interpreting Its Contents):

5. Come to terms with the author by interpreting his key words.

6. Grasp the author's leading propositions by dealing with his most important sentences.

7. Know the author's arguments, by finding them in, or constructing them out of, sequences of sentences.

8. Determine which of his problems the author has solved, and which he has not; and as to the latter, decide which the author knew he had failed to solve.

10. CRITICIZING A BOOK FAIRLY

We said at the end of the last chapter that we had come a long way. We have learned how to outline a book. We have learned the four rules for interpreting a book's contents. We are now ready for the last stage of analytical reading. Here you will reap the reward of all your previous efforts.

Reading a book is a kind of conversation. You may think it is not conversation at all, because the author does all the talking and you have nothing to say. If you think that, you do not realize your full obligation as a reader-and you are not grasping your opportunities.

As a matter of fact, the reader is the one who has the last word. The author has had his say, and then it is the reader's turn. The conversation between a book and its reader would appear to be an orderly one, each party talking in turn, no interruptions, and so forth. If, however, the reader is undisciplined and impolite, it may be anything but orderly. The poor author cannot defend himself. He cannot say, "Here, wait till I've finished, before you start disagreeing." He cannot protest that the reader has misunderstood him, has missed his point.

Ordinary conversations between persons who confront each other are good only when they are carried on civilly. We are not thinking merely of the civilities according to conventions of social politeness. Such conventions are not really important. What is important is that there is an intellectual etiquette to be observed. Without it, conversation is bickering rather than profitable communication. We are assuming here, of course, that the conversation is about a serious matter on which men can agree or disagree. Then it becomes important that they conduct themselves well. Otherwise, there is no profit in the enterprise. The profit in good conversation is something learned.

What is true of ordinary conversation is even more true of the rather special situation in which a book has talked to a reader and the reader talks back. That the author is well disciplined, we will take for granted temporarily. That he has conducted his part of the conversation well can be assumed in the case of good books. What can the reader do to reciprocate? What must he do to hold up his end well?

The reader has an obligation as well as an opportunity to talk back. The opportunity is clear. Nothing can stop a reader from pronouncing judgment. The roots of the obligation, however, lie a little deeper in the nature of the relation between books and readers.

If the book is of the sort that conveys knowledge, the author's aim was to instruct. He has tried to teach. He has tried to convince or persuade his reader about something. His effort is crowned with success only if the reader finally says,

"I am taught. You have convinced me that such and such is true, or persuaded me that it is probable." But even if the reader is not convinced or persuaded, the author's intention and effort should be respected. The reader owes him a considered judgment. If he cannot say, "I agree," he should at least have grounds for disagreeing or even for suspending judgment on the question.

We are really saying no more than what we have already said many times. A good book deserves an active reading. The activity of reading does not stop with the work of understanding what a book says. It must be completed by the work of criticism, the work of fudging. The undemanding reader fails to satisfy this requirement, probably even more than he fails to analyze and interpret. He not only makes no effort to understand; he also dismisses a book simply by putting it aside and forgetting it. Worse than faintly praising it, he damns it by giving it no critical consideration whatever.

Teachability as a Virtue

What we mean by talking back is not something apart from reading. It is the third stage in the analytical reading of a book; and there are rules here as in the case of the first two stages. Some of these rules are general maxims of intellectual etiquette. We will deal with them in this chapter. Others are more specific criteria for defining points of criticism. They will be discussed in the next chapter.

There is a tendency to think that a good book is above the criticism of the average reader. The reader and the author are not peers. The author, according to this view, should be subjected to a trial only by a jury of his peers. Remember Bacon's recommendation to the reader: "Read not to contradict and confute; nor to believe and take for granted; nor to find talk and discourse; but to weigh and consider." Sir Walter Scott casts even more dire aspersions on those "who read to doubt or read to scorn."

There is a certain truth here, of course, but there is also a good deal of nonsense about the aura of impeccability with which books are thus surrounded, and the false piety it produces. Readers may be like children, in the sense that great authors can teach them, but that does not mean they must not be heard from. Cervantes may or not have been right in saying,

"There is no book so bad but something good may be found in it." It is more certain that there is no book so good that no fault can be found with it.

It is true that a book that can enlighten its readers, and is in this sense superior to them, should not be criticized by them until they understand it. When they do, they have elevated themselves almost to equality with the author. Now they are fit to exercise the rights and privileges of their new position.

Unless they exercise their critical faculties now, they are doing the author an injustice. He has done what he could to make them his equal. He deserves that they act like his peers, that they engage in conversation with him, that they talk back.

We are discussing here the virtue of teachability -a virtue that is almost always misunderstood. Teachability is often confused with subservience. A person is wrongly thought to be teachable if he is passive and pliable. On the contrary, teachability is an extremely active virtue. No one is really teachable who does not freely exercise his power of independent judgment. He can be trained, perhaps, but not taught. The most teachable reader is, therefore, the most critical. He is the reader who finally responds to a book by the greatest effort to make up his own mind on the matters the author has discussed.