Dogged readers of this space will observe that I habitually quote
a handful of classic writings, chiefly the Shakespeare works, Boswell’s
Life of Samuel Johnson, and The Federalist
Papers. If those readers
suspect that these few masterpieces pretty much exhaust my learning,
they are correct.
When I was young, I bought the whole set of Mortimer Adler’s Great
Books of the Western World, intending to read them all. But somehow
I never got around to more than a few of them. Ditto the works of Dickens
and Balzac.
I’m a voracious reader, but most of what I read is the most
perishable kind of literature, journalism. After all, journalism is
my racket, and that means keeping up with things that will soon be
forgotten. So I start the day with several newspapers, but seldom finish
it with a classic I haven’t read before.
In Mark Twain’s famous definition, a classic is a book everyone
wants to have read, but nobody wants to read. Gulp! But those daunting
all-time must-reading lists are a little misleading. It can take years
to master a single great author. Much of what we “know” about
the classics is what we’ve heard about them in advance, and we
may not get beyond their reputations until we’ve read them several
times.
Yet the few classics I know thoroughly have been invaluable, even
in my work as a journalist. To know a single old book well, even if
it hasn’t been canonized as a “classic,” is to have
a certain anchorage you can’t get from most contemporary writing.
There are no particular classics, not even Shakespeare, that you “must” read.
But you should find a few meritorious old writers you find absorbing
and not only read them, but live with them, until they become voices
in your mind — a sort of internal council you can consult at
any time.
When you internalize an author whose vision or philosophy is both
rich and out of fashion, you gain a certain immunity from the pressures
of the contemporary. The modern world, with its fads, propaganda, and
advertising, is forever trying to herd us into conformity. Great literature
can help us remain fad-proof.
The modern world is like a perpetual Nuremburg rally: everything that
was wrong with Nazi Germany is more or less typical of other modern
states, even those states that imagine they are the opposite of Nazi
Germany. Political enemies usually turn out to be cousins, whose most
violent differences are essentially superficial, masking deeper agreements
in principle. Stalin, Hitler, Franklin Roosevelt, and Winston Churchill
were closer to each other than they realized; so are Bill Clinton and
Slobodan Milosevic.
When confronted with a new topic or political issue, I often ask myself
what Shakespeare, Samuel Johnson, Edmund Burke, or James Madison — or,
among more recent authors, George Orwell, C.S. Lewis, or Michael Oakeshott — would
have thought of it. Not that these men were always right: that would
be impossible, since they often disagree with each other. The great
authors have no specific “message.”
But at least they had minds of their own. They weren’t mere
products of the thought-factory we call public
opinion, which might
be defined as what everyone thinks everyone else thinks. They provide
independent, poll-proof standards of judgment, when the government,
its schools, and the media, using all the modern techniques of manipulation,
try to breed mass uniformity in order to make us more manageable.
It’s up to us to maintain some detachment, and the literature
of the past helps make this possible. That’s why tyrannical governments
usually try to control, marginalize, or even abolish that literature,
especially religious literature. This need not be achieved by overt
censorship; it can be done through school curricula, or in the name
of “the separation of church and state.”
The classics are those books that discerning readers, over time, have
recognized as offering fresh ways of seeing the world — “news
that stays new,” as someone has put it. It might also be called
news that stays urgent.
And stays delightful. There’s nothing quite like the joy of
falling in love with an old book, finding a mentor who speaks to you
across the centuries.
The Reactionary
Utopian archives
Copyright © 2011 by the Fitzgerald
Griffin Foundation. All rights reserved. This column was published originally
by Griffin Internet Syndicate on April 6, 1999.
Joe Sobran was an author and a syndicated columnist. See bio
and archives of some of his columns.
Watch Sobran's last TV appearance on YouTube.
Learn how to get a tape of his last speech
during the FGF Tribute to Joe Sobran in December 2009.
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