the haunted bookshop(闹鬼的书店)-第25章
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and
Dare to be true： nothing can need a ly； A fault； which needs it most；
grows two thereby。
Forgive this tedious sermon！ My mind has been so tumbled up and
down this autumn that I am in a queer state of mingled melancholy and
exaltation。 You know how much I live in and for books。 Well； I have a
curious feeling； a kind of premonition that there are great books coming
out of this welter of human hopes and anguishes； perhaps A book in which
the tempest…shaken soul of the race will speak out as it never has before。
The Bible； you know； is rather a disappointment： it has never done for
humanity what it should have done。 I wonder why？ Walt Whitman is
going to do a great deal； but he is not quite what I mean。 There is
something comingI don't know just what！ I thank God I am a bookseller；
trafficking in the dreams and beauties and curiosities of humanity rather
than some mere huckster of merchandise。 But how helpless we all are
when we try to tell what goes on within us！ I found this in one of Lafcadio
Hearn's letters the other dayI marked the passage for you
Baudelaire has a touching poem about an albatross； which you would
likedescribing the poet's soul superb in its own free azure but helpless；
insulted； ugly； clumsy when striving to walk on common earth or rather；
on a deck； where sailors torment it with tobacco pipes； etc。
You can imagine what evenings I have here among my shelves； now
the long dark nights are come！ Of course until ten o'clock； when I shut
up shop； I am constantly interruptedas I have been during this letter；
once to sell a copy of Helen's Babies and once to sell The Ballad of
Reading Gaol； so you can see how varied are my clients' tastes！ But later
on； after we have had our evening cocoa and Helen has gone to bed； I
prowl about the place； dipping into this and that； fuddling myself with
speculation。 How clear and bright the stream of the mind flows in those
late hours； after all the sediment and floating trash of the day has drained
off！ Sometimes I seem to coast the very shore of Beauty or Truth； and hear
the surf breaking on those shining sands。 Then some offshore wind of
weariness or prejudice bears me away again。 Have you ever come across
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Andreyev's Confessions of a Little Man During Great Days？ One of the
honest books of the War。 The Little Man ends his confession thus
My anger has left me； my sadness returned； and once more the tears
flow。 Whom can I curse； whom can I judge； when we are all alike
unfortunate？ Suffering is universal； hands are outstretched to each other；
and when they touch 。 。 。 the great solution will come。 My heart is aglow；
and I stretch out my hand and cry； 〃Come； let us join hands！ I love you； I
love you！〃
And of course； as soon as one puts one's self in that frame of mind
someone comes along and picks your pocket。 。 。 。 I suppose we must
teach ourselves to be too proud to mind having our pockets picked！
Did it ever occur to you that the world is really governed by BOOKS？
The course of this country in the War； for instance； has been largely
determined by the books Wilson has read since he first began to think！ If
we could have a list of the principal books he has read since the War began；
how interesting it would be。
Here's something I'm just copying out to put up on my bulletin board
for my customers to ponder。 It was written by Charles Sorley； a young
Englishman who was killed in France in 1915。 He was only twenty years
old
TO GERMANY
You are blind like us。 Your hurt no man designed； And no man
claimed the conquest of your land。 But gropers both through fields of
thought confined We stumble and we do not understand。 You only saw
your future bigly planned； And we； the tapering paths of our own mind；
And in each other's dearest ways we stand； And hiss and hate。 And the
blind fight the blind。 When it is peace； then we may view again With
new…won eyes each other's truer form And wonder。 Grown more loving…
kind and warm We'll grasp firm hands and laugh at the old pain； When it is
peace。 But until peace； the storm The darkness and the thunder and the
rain。
Isn't that noble？ You see what I am dumbly groping forsome way
of thinking about the War that will make it seem （to future ages） a
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purification for humanity rather than a mere blackness of stinking cinders
and tortured flesh and men shot to ribbons in marshes of blood and sewage。
Out of such unspeakable desolation men MUST rise to some new
conception of national neighbourhood。 I hear so much apprehension that
Germany won't be punished sufficiently for her crime。 But how can any
punishment be devised or imposed for such a huge panorama of sorrow？
I think she has already punished herself horribly； and will continue to do
so。 My prayer is that what we have gone through will startle the world into
some new realization of the sanctity of lifeall life； animal as well as
human。 Don't you find that a visit to a zoo can humble and astound you
with all that amazing and grotesque variety of living energy？
What is it that we find in every form of life？ Desire of some sort
some unexplained motive power that impels even the smallest insect on its
queer travels。 You must have watched some infinitesimal red spider on a
fence rail； bustling alongwhy and whither？ Who knows？ And when
you come to man； what a chaos of hungers and impulses keep thrusting
him through his cycle of quaint tasks！ And in every human heart you
find some sorrow； some frustration； some lurking pang。 I often think of
Lafcadio Hearn's story of his Japanese cook。 Hearn was talking of the
Japanese habit of not showing their emotions on their faces。 His cook
was a smiling； healthy； agreeable…looking young fellow whose face was
always cheerful。 Then one day； by chance； Hearn happened to look
through a hole in the wall and saw his cook alone。 His face was not the
same face。 It was thin and drawn and showed strange lines worn by old
hardships or sufferings。 Hearn thought to himself； 〃He will look just like
that when he is dead。〃 He went into the kitchen to see him； and instantly
the cook was all changed； young and happy again。 Never again did
Hearn see that face of trouble； but he knew the man wore it when he was
alone。
Don't you think there is a kind of parable there for the race as a whole？
Have you ever met a man without wondering what shining sorrows he
hides from the world； what contrast between vision and accomplishment
torments him？ Behind every smiling mask is there not some cryptic
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grimace of pain？ Henry Adams puts it tersely。 He says the human mind
appears suddenly and inexplicably out of some unknown and
unimaginable void。 It passes half its known life in the mental chaos of
sleep。 Even when awake it is a victim of its own ill…adjustment； of disease；
of age； of external suggestion； of nature's compulsions； it doubts its own
sensations and trusts only in instruments and averages。 After sixty years or
so of growing astonishment the mind wakes to find itself looking blankly
into the void of death。 And； as Adams says； that it should profess itself
pleased by this performance is all that the highest rules of good breeding
can ask。 That the mind should actually be satisfied would prove that it
exists only as idiocy！
I hope that you will write to tell me along what curves your mind is
moving。 For my own part I feel that we are on the verge of amazing
things。 Long ago I fell back on books as the only permanent consolers。
They are the one stainless and unimpeachable achievement of the human
race。 It saddens me to think that I shall have to die with thousands of
books unread that would have given me noble and unblemished happiness。
I will tell you a secret。 I have never read King Lear； and have purposely
refrained from doing so。 If I were ever very ill I would only need to say to
myself 〃You can't die yet； you haven't read Lear。〃 That would bring me
round； I know it would。
You see； books are the answer to all our perplexities！ Henry Adams
grinds his teeth at his inability to understand the universe。 The best he can
do is to suggest a 〃law of acceleration；〃 which seems to mean that Nature
is hustling man along at an ever…increasing rate so that he will either solve
all her problems or else die of fever in the effort。 But Adams' candid
portrait of a mind grappling helplessly with its riddles is so triumphantly
delightful that one forgets the futility of the struggle in the accuracy of the
picture。 Man is unconquerable because he can make even his helplessness
so entertaining。 His motto seems to be 〃Even though He slay me； yet
will I make fun of Him！〃
Yes； books are man's supreme triumph； for they gather up and transmit
all other triumphs。 As Walter de la Mare writes； 〃How
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uncomprehendingly must an angel from heaven smile on a poor human
sitting engrossed in a romance： angled upon his hams； motionless in
