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“…I will ask you to take down any book at random from your shelves and conduct in your own mind an honest inquiry as to what has been the effect of that particular book on your actual living.” From Arnold Bennett’s essay, “Translating Literature Into Life”
Arnold Bennett (1867-1931) was an English author primarily recognized for his novels that were successful when written and some of his novels are now considered major works. Overall he was a prolific author, writing books in other areas as well as being engaged in journalism. He is noted for writing a series of self-help books such as How to Live Twenty Four Hours a Day (1910) that were successful when written and still get recognition today. The Arnold Bennett Society was founded in 1954 with the goal of “the study and appreciation of the life, works, and times of Arnold Bennett.” The Society’s Web address is https://www.arnoldbennettsociety.org.uk/about-the-society/.
The essay “Translating Literature Into Life” was published in Bennett’s book, Things That Have Interested Me (1921). The book is available at the Internet Archive’s Website as a free PDF download at https://archive.org/details/cu31924013587161/mode/2up.
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In his short essay, “Translating Literature Into Life”, Arnold Bennett starts by giving a parable of a man who has a complete manual of carpentry, studies it industriously, but who lives in a ramshackle residence. Among other things he has orange crates for his dining table and unstable chairs that are a danger to sit in. When asked why he does not apply his knowledge of carpentry to improve the living conditions of himself, wife, and children, “… he replied that he was a student, and he plunged more deeply than ever into the manual of carpentry. His friends at length definitely came to the conclusion that, though he was an industrious student, he was also a hopeless fool.”1
From the parable Bennett finds that study is a means to an end, and not an end in-and-of itself, but he notes disconcertingly that many people ignore this as readers: “The man who pores over a manual of carpentry and does naught else is a fool. But every book is a manual of carpentry, and every man who pores over any book whatever and does naught else with it is deserving of an abusive epithet. What is the object of reading unless something definite comes of it?”2
The question, “What is the object of reading unless something definite comes of it?” becomes the point of Bennett’s essay and he answers his question directly and forcefully. I will quote him extensively in his answering his question in what follows.
First, If one cannot apply one’s reading to their life, then Bennett finds that one has missed an opportunity to do so:
“Where is the sense of reading history if you do not obtain from it a clearer insight into actual politics and render yourself less liable to be duped by the rhetoric of party propaganda? Where is the sense of reading philosophy if your own attitude towards the phenomena of the universe does not become more philosophical? Where is the sense of reading morals unless your own are improved? Where is the sense of reading biography unless it is going to affect what people will say about you after your funeral? Where is the sense of reading poetry or fiction unless you see more beauty, more passion, more scope for your sympathy, than you saw before?”3
Or, instead, one asserts that they do try to apply literature to life, Bennett responds:
“…then I will ask you to take down any book at random from your shelves and conduct in your own mind an honest inquiry as to what has been the effect of that particular book on your actual living. If you can put your hand on any subsequent period, or fractional moment, of your life, and say: ‘I acted more wisely then, I wasn’t such a dupe then, I perceived more clearly then, I felt more deeply then, I saw more beauty then, I was kinder then, I was more joyous then, I was happier then—than I should have been if I had not read that book’—if you can honestly say this, then your reading of that book has not been utterly futile. But if you cannot say this, then the chances are that your reading of that book has been utterly futile. The chances are that you have been studying a manual of carpentry while continuing to sit on a three-legged chair and to dine off an orange-box.”4 Bennett sees reading as important in furnishing one’s mind, emotions, and conduct for living a better life.
Second, if one asserts as a defense that he, or she, reads only for pleasure, then Bennett’s rebut is “…that the man who drinks whisky might with force say: ‘I only drink whisky for pleasure.’ And I respectfully request you not to plume yourself on your reading, nor expect to acquire merit thereby.”5 Pleasure as a measure for one’s reading for Bennett is superficial and is not purposeful reading that contributes to living one’s life. The next two paragraphs will show how to make reading a part of one’s life.
Third, if one states that translating literature into life is not easy to do, Bennett, in a important passage, states that he is quite aware of this problem, why it is so, and what can be done about it:
“And I admit freely that when I think of the time I have wasted in reading masterpieces, I stand aghast. The explanation is simple. Idleness, intellectual sloth, is the explanation. If you were invited to meet a great writer, you would brace yourself to the occasion. You would say to yourself: “I must keep my ears open, and my brain wide-awake, so as to miss nothing.” You would tingle with your own bracing of yourself. But you—I mean we—will sit down to a great book as though we were sitting down to a ham sandwich. No sense of personal inferiority in us! No mood of resolve! No tuning up of the intellectual apparatus! But just a casual, easy air, as if saying to the book: “Well, come along, let’s have a look at you!” What is the matter with our reading is casualness, languor, preoccupation. We don’t give the book a chance. We don’t put ourselves at the disposal of the book. It is impossible to read properly without using all one’s engine-power. If we are not tired after reading, common sense is not in us. How should one grapple with a superior and not be out of breath? “6
And fourth, reading with effort and intensity does not end the task of seeking to apply a person’s reading to living their life. There is more be done, which is thinking about what has been read in a book and which is rereading a book to better understand it. Bennett states in the final paragraph of his essay:
“But even if we read with the whole force of our brain, and do nothing else, common sense is still not in us, while sublime conceit is. For we are assuming that, without further trouble, we can possess, co-ordinate, and assimilate all the ideas and sensations rapidly offered to us by a mind greater than our own. The assumption has only to be stated in order to appear in its monstrous absurdity. Hence it follows that something remains to be done. This something is the act of reflection. Reading without subsequent reflection is ridiculous; it is a proof equally of folly and of vanity. Further, it is a sign of undue self-esteem to suppose that we can grasp the full import of an author’s message at a single reading. I would not say that every book worth reading once is worth reading twice over. But I would say that no book of great and established reputation is read till it is read at least twice. You can easily test the truth of this by reading again any classic.”7
Bennett’s essay remedies ill-conceived (i.e non-purposeful) approaches to one’s reading by giving advice on why and how to bring well-conceived (i.e. purposeful) approaches to one’s reading. Being a writer and reader himself, he speaks with conviction on making what one reads part of one’s life.
FOOTNOTES:
Views on Reading 
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