Literary overload

Saturday, December 22^nd., Chiltern Court, London.

A wide inquiry ought to be made as to the average time given to reading by the average person fond of books. I estimate that it cannot be more than an hour a day, and even that is generous. I am led to this suggestion following a visit to a bookshop this morning – it was awash with persons who appeared increasingly desperate to find a book (almost any book) which would ‘do’ as a Christmas present. I had hoped to browse at leisure, but such was not to be.
How many of these books will be read? Rather less than are put onto a shelf for a year or two and then disposed of when it is safe to do so without offence to the giver. 
 
Now, go into a bookshop and see the new books and new editions. Scan the literary pages of the press. Examine the multitudinous advertisements of publishers. Not only will you be intimidated by the mere mass, you will be compelled to admit that even if we had a hundred Christmases on end, and ate and drank in strictest moderation, and refrained from parties and read steadily all day and every day we could not read a quarter or an eighth of the books which are worth reading. 
 
The output of books is enormous and growing, but the literary public is also enormous and growing and feels under pressure to ‘keep up’ with new authors and fashions. There is some sort of a public for nearly every good book, and the duty of the wise is to choose one book and to totally ignore another. And then to read it slowly and with pleasure. All hurried reading is worse than futile; it is a waste of time. I admire a person who says when a certain book is mentioned: “It may be a masterpiece but I haven’t read it, and I shan’t”.