A SATIATED PUBLIC.

Dominion, Volume 6, Issue 1599, 16 November 1912, Page 9

A SATIATED PUBLIC.

The- station bookstall,', even more than the bookseller's shop, presents a problem to which it offers 110 splution. ..To what end are these piles of rival magazines, m, clashing colours, elbowing each other? Why should these many-liued weeklies, so sedulously punctual, and, for the most part, so amazingly inano; these endless series" and "libraries" upon the shelves; those hundredweights of a fiction that is neither lifo nor romance, be produced at all? Of course the obvious answer, is— for profit. Biit is that to be tho .end of it? ■ : " L Tho public, the profit-provided,' is not/ greatly interested in this' iniposirig show: The public, indeed, appears, a little ;Jx>ted. Round it is a clamouring l 'arniy of'bookmakers, of magazine-makers,.', of seriesmakers, 'of . short-cuts-to-khowledge-mak-ers, each raising a terrific din nboutiliis. wares, each crying, with-passionatfi'itera-tion, "Buy m.c; I am ,the best!"- One sees tho public as a : -patient flock./ of ■geese, or, if you like, a ' horde of children, not waiting to'be fed,- but having food thrust down \ their 'throats. Ajain ono sees it is a bewildered,'giant. a Cyclops whose ore rolls distractedly in search of a point of. rest. ,'Or,' again, it is a rich, and sinVple innocent,- open-'to tho exploitation of overyy nostrum, whether of pills* or print. • ; ' . : . .. . The leading fact that.''emerges' ■'from all this is the. bewildered, passivity .'/of tho public. It seems almost' to. lost the power of individual'selection." No longer has it to search' for- what it wants; ,it knows nothing of tho joys of discovery. It has only to put out its hand, and'imraediately something .is given, and it doesn't seem' to mind much what it is. How can it, thus beset', and besought, and beguiled?' It has no knowledge of' tho innumerable gentlemen sitting in, numberless offices racking their'brains for-, a "new. idea" in periodicals, nor does it hear tho click of thousands and .thousands of typewriters and the_ drone of weary voices, dictating,' dictating endless, copy "that it is devoutly hoped may "catch on." The public , is there to be fooled, according to tho code. "To -try to prophesy where this multiplication ? of i print—particularly illustrated periodical print—will finftllv lead us would be idle, but tho immediate result is plain, and it is precisely this: that the-average person who Teads in the objectless snirit upon which this octopus of print lives is extraordinarily muddled—muddled not only about what he reads, but also about life. He loses perspective, proportion, and in time he will almost lose the power of consecutive thought. The mind adapts itself more readily to trivial •things than to the things that matter; it becomes a kind of feeble Anarchist, plotting its own overthrow. That is Hie .result of being crammed'with "periodical i literature." Of the many "series" and "libraries" we can only speak wifh respect; they are admirable in themselves. We are assured by' the publishers that thev "bring true literature to the million"; that they "provide intellectual food for the rising generation"; that they "bring the greatest minds of the world into the home." Yes. wo know all about that. We know that it is easy enough to "brin? them into tho home." We bring them tied up in a neat brown paper parcel, and feel infinitely proud and virtuous. There they arc. But what happens to them then ? The classics cannot very well be assailed—there is no quarrel with them. But to read tho classics, or aiiy work that has thought behind it, a certain amount of detachment is necessary, and n rood deal, of concentration is indispensable. The aotual and born student knows this fey natural instinct but tie averaee read-;

er, who is tho average buyer, does not. The-student, in all ages, has found'his own way, series or no series, and he will continue to find it. But what does the. buyer of these masterpieces make of his long tows of pretty ; books? Often they are on his shelves just because they aro pretty books, and because most men like to be credited with that "tincture of letters" which is supposed to be like tho final polish on. lacquer work. An ordinarily intelligent man in most of the affairs of life recently devoted a month of evenings to a couplo of volumes of Montaigne. Ho become more and more perplexed; he could make neither.head nor tail of that inimitable pagan. But, mor* conscientious than some, he had bought Mantaigne in a series, and meant to get his money's worth. Now what is there in Montaigne to puzzle a. man who can concentrate, -or half-concentrate, his mind? You may question Montaigne's, philosophy, there is no doubt aDput what ho means. This anau was incap- 1 able of concentration, he could grasp nothing but the "mean style" of which Aristotle speaks. He had the periodical habit. Ask any intelligent examiner, and he will tell you that it is the same with most modern students of literature,' 1 the conscientious learners.- What they lack is: grip. They, too, cannot concentrate. They may be amused by a paradox, but they are bemused by a synthesis. Many of these minds lack neither alertness nor intelligence, but they are often lost when it ', comes -to following the constructive processes of thought. They have read, indeed, but to what end? The finer fie-], tion eludes them, though, they will read, and quote with liOTrible appreciation, the rank banalities of the minor novelist. These are not- clay in 'the hands of the potter; at best they are but as sand, taking the obliterative impressions of the moment. They are gorged with print. It is the disgorging process that is need-ed-here. No. wise man complains of desultory reading; it may be termed the pick and shovel work that shall disclose the vein of . gold, henceforth to be followed to a life's, ehd. iTurn a boy-r-or a girl, for that matter—into a library, and let him browse at will. 'And if it be a right library the table will not be' encumbered with piles of periodicals. There will be room on it for the careful ojioning of tall folios, and there will be a smaller table,-near the light; ..where the. reader may take his fill of high romance. Twenty good books may.mako a library, and a thousand only' a-chaps." A• ' ' '- . •'- fact is that this patient public is glutted' with printed matter. It does not know [where to choose; and still the sellers cry.and cry. Our ago has evolved an almost- incredible anomaly, a new vice. It is the vice of reading the casual,, the foolish, the trivial, without-knowing them to .be casual," trivial, and foolish. And in the welter : o f, it all- stands imperturbable, tlie figure of Irony, his lips a littlo awry, but;/- with pity in his eyes.—"The Academy/', - , - "