“It has been said a long time ago that books have
their fate. They have, and it is very
much like the destiny of man. They share
with us the great incertitude of ignominy or glory—of severe justice and
senseless persecution—of calumny and misunderstanding—the shame of undeserved
success. Of all the inanimate objects,
of all men’s creations, books are the nearest to us, for they contain our very
thought, our ambitions, our indignations, our illusions, our fidelity to truth,
and our persistent leaning towards error.
But most of all they resemble us in their precarious hold on life. A bridge constructed according to the rules
of the art of bridge-building is certain of a long, honourable and useful
career. But a book as good in its way as
the bridge may perish obscurely on the very day of its birth. The art of their creators is not sufficient
to give them more than a moment of life.
Of the books born from the restlessness, the inspiration, and the vanity
of human minds, those that the Muses would love best lie more than all others
under the menace of an early death.
Sometimes their defects will save them.
Sometimes a book fair to see may—to use a lofty expression—have no
individual soul. Obviously a book of
that sort cannot die. It can only
crumble into dust. But the best of books
drawing sustenance from the sympathy and memory of men have lived on the brink
of destruction, for men’s memories are short, and their sympathy is, we must
admit, a very fluctuating, unprincipled emotion.”—Joseph Conrad, “Books,” in Notes on Life and Letters (1905)
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