READING IN BED

New Zealand Listener, Volume 18, Issue 459, 9 April 1948, Page 14

READING IN BED

O you read in bed, and if so, what? Some péople don’t, and are apt to be rather superior about it. "Bad habit! When I go to bed I put my light out immediately, and I’m asleep as soon as my head touches the pillow." Others have become so accustomed to a book in bed that they can’t do without one. A commercial traveller I knew, who worked one of the New Zealand provinces, an exceptionally wellread man, became such a slave to the habit that one night in a country town, having no book with him and finding nothing in the hotel, he took a directory to bed. Many of us know what it is to have a mind that will not follow the lead of weary body. The very first poem in the collection before me * is Shakespeare’s' sonnet, Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed, The dear repose for limbs with travel tir’d; But then begins a journey in my head To work my mind, when body’s work’s expir’d; For then my thoughts, from far where I abide, Intend a jealous pilgrimage to thee ... . Can we minister to such a mind with the printed word? Are there books that will put us to sleep, or in the words of this editor, who seeks to avoid both keepigg the reader awake and sending him to sleep — "compose the mind"? Often we do not define the purpose so clearly to ourselves. We just want to read, and, like my friend with the directory, at a pinch anything will do. We may be those fortunates who can sleep when they wish. Choice, of course, depends largely on taste and bent. I knew a doctor who, having from his schooldays retained his keen interest in mathematics, sometimes took a textebook on algebra to bed with him. He assured me it gave him real pleasure, and I could not allow my own life-long incompetence to shake my belief in his veracity. Mathematics, I am told, are closely allied to music, or some varieties of it. Is it a Compliment? Can we therefore generalise about bed-books? Some years ago a famous English house issued a series with the straight-out title of Bedside Books, and Professor Walter Murdoch, noticing the first six, wrote this: I am not at all sure that I should feel flattered if anyone told me that a book of mine was a good bedside book; for the phrase certainly does suggest certain sedative or soporific qualities; it must not be so interesting as to keep you awake. If a man troubled with insomnia murmurs to himself-‘"I’m out of aspirins again; dash it, I'll have to fall back on St. Augustine!" --he pays the fiery bishop a doubtful compliment. "Avoid bromides; read Cranford" would be a neat enough advertisement; but what would Mrs. Gaskell say about it? The six books were, besides St. Augustine and Cranford, a_ selection of Boccaccio’s tales; a complete sequence of the Falstaff scenes; The Life and Death of Socrates, and The Parables and Sayings of Jesus. These, I suggest, give us a line to follow. They are all exciting aesthetically; three of them are so morally-Jesus was the most exciting moral teacher the world has

known. But they do not convey excitement in the general sense of the word. When they tell a story they tell it withcut thunder and lightning. The tales are smooth. You have a choice of humour. There is tragedy, but no passion erupts. There is no mazy coil of violent action, no long pattern of intrigue. If we wish to, we can move on the deepest waters, but they are still. The suggestion is therefore that a good bedside book, something that will "compose the mind," should provide a measure of tranquillity and serenity. This rules out a large proportion of fiction as bringing to the mind too much of the world’s disturbance, accentuated maybe by the writer’s imagination. I must confess that I don’t follow this rule, but roll and plunge and vibrate myself towards sleep by reading detective stories and thrillers. I know from experience this is not the best preparation for the night; sometimes I lie awake and wonder who did it, and whether boy gets girl. This may be rated the least admirable approach to the "death of each day’s life," "the baiting place of wit,’ "the season of all natures"’-sleep. It is also questionable whether the continuity of a book that takes you upon a journey is good for bed reading. One is -too apt to want to know what happens next-whether in narrative or argumént-and read too long. That is why dipping books are popular for reading in bed. Edward Sackville-West’s And So to Bed is this sort of book. Compiled from a BBC broadcast féature of five-minute poetry and prose extracts, it seeks as the original did, "to provide a few minutes’ quiet reading for those who are neither too tired to submit themselves to the enchantment of poetry, nor too disturbed in mind to hope that sleep will quickly follow the laying aside of the book." There is reading here that might soothe those who are so disturbed. This declared intention mentions specifically "the enchantment of poetry," but Edward SackvilleWest uses "poetry" in its widest sense as including prose that has poetical content. So we have bits of prose from Montaigne, Jeremy Taylor, Ruskin, Byron, Treherne, Gerard, Manley Hopkins, Cobbett, Southey, Hudson, Virginia Woolf, and others. It is well to have it indicated occasionally how close is the ‘affinity between the two methods of expression. There are three patterns in the collection. There is a division into four sections-Winter, Spring, Summer and

Autumn-because the extracts. were chosen for broadcasting with some idea of suitability to the season. Then, within the sections there are groups of a few. related pieces, with comment. For example, Coleridge’s musing by a winter fire, in which he considers the future of his infant son, is followed by W. B. Yeats’ "more exact wishes for his daughter." These are two lovely things. The Yeats remind us that each age produces its own literary greatness, and leaves to posterity material for the judging of a classic. "No Violence "The third and over-riding pattern is one’ of general selection. It may be indicated by what is left out or put in sparingly. Though the broadcasts were given in wartime, there is no war, no violence. There is little passionate love, an. emotion not calculated to compose the mind. True, we have Marlowe of the "cannonading lines"-his praise of and lament for Zenocrate-but even here the beauty and majesty of the lines may soothe. "To entertain divine Zenocrate": the music of consonant and vowel may move gently in the mind and lull one into content-"To entertain divine Zenocrate," "To entertain divine Zenocrate,’ "To entertain ...... ." until drowsiness deepens. There is a great deal about nature and human nature, including children. "From yon dark wood, mark blue-eyed Eve proceed"; "Summer ends now; now, barbarous in beauty, the stooks arise around"; "Most lovely dark, my Aethiopia born"; "He that of such height hath built his mind"; "For infants time is like a humming shell, heard between sleep and sleep"; "His golden locks time hath to silver turned"; "Sweet are the thoughts that savour of content"; "The infinitude of life is in the heart of man"; "Where slanting banks are always with sun." These are a few of the openings, ranging from the Elizabethans to our own time. You may amuse yourself by placing them. Writers popularly called pessimists are not excluded. Here is A. E. Housman’s "Be still, my soul, be still; the arms you bear are brittle’; and Hardy’s "When the Present has latched its postern behind my tremulous stay." D. H. Lawrence, much better known as a novelist than as a poet, is represented by a \poem as well as by a piece of prose.

"The Ship of Death" opens the section on autumn, and draws from that season a poignancy not found in more familiar treatments. Volie. of Anthologies Every anthology brings up the ques‘tion: what is the literary value of such collections? There are critics who think that the anthology habit is akin to the ways sparrows feed. We should not be content with scraps. But no ordinary reader can form a library containing all che works of all the writers whom the anthologist admits. If he were able to do so, he could not. carry his library about -with him. A good anthology is a library in a tiny compass. I have a pocket edition of the Golden Treasury that has been round’ the world with me. One reason why a _ collection like this ‘is good for bed-reading is that it is moderate in size and light in weight. Moreover, anthologies are potent in widening horizons. The great accepted writers of the past we know by repute if not through our reading. They are always more or less available. It is mostly smaller men ‘and women .we discover through anthologies. In the same way, the Dictionary of National Bio- graphy is more valuable for its information about lesser folk than for what it has to say about the giants of history. I have one or two anthologies which I value especially (they are among the books I don’t lend) because they contain verses by minor poets which I could get only by going to a library, and I might not always be successful. There is also the personality of the editor, expressed in his choice and sometimes in his comment. A conspicuous example is Lord Wavell’s collection. There is real intellectual excitement .in following the impacts of poetry on this great soldier’s mind. We enjoy comparing another man’s choice with our own. The contact has the flavour of good talk. Edward Sackville-West’s present anthology is a witness for the defence in every respect. He presents us with a wide range in a small space; he leads us back to familiar things and introduces us to new delights; and he has a point of view. His book will be read by many long before bed-time. Poetry has all hours for its province, save perhaps the most prosaic-breakfast-time.

A.

M.

*AND SO TO BED: An Album compiled from his BBC feature by Edward SackvilleWest. Phoenix House, London, Our copy from ‘the British Council.