In its results, however, we are more concerned. Probably each of
us has his mental picture that passes as a symbol rather than an
idea of the different continents. This is usually a single
picture-a deep river, with forest, hanging snaky vines,
anacondas and monkeys for the east coast of South America, for
example. It is built up in youth by chance reading and chance
pictures, and does as well as a pink place on the map to stand
for a part of the world concerning which we know nothing at all.
As time goes on we extend, expand, and modify this picture in the
light of what knowledge we may acquire. So the reading of many
books modifies and expands our first crude notions of Equatorial
Africa. And the result is, if we read enough of the sort I
describe above, we build the idea of an exciting, dangerous,
extra-human continent, visited by half-real people of the texture
of the historical-fiction hero, who have strange and interesting
adventures which we could not possibly imagine happening to
ourselves.

This type of book is directly responsible for the second sort.
The author of this is deadly afraid of being thought to brag of
his adventures. He feels constantly on him the amusedly critical
eye of the old-timer. When he comes to describe the first time a
rhino dashed in his direction, he remembers that old hunters, who
have been so charged hundreds of times, may read the book.
Suddenly, in that light, the adventure becomes pitifully
unimportant. He sets down the fact that "we met a rhino that
turned a bit nasty, but after a shot in the shoulder decided to
leave us alone." Throughout he keeps before his mind's eye the
imaginary audience of those who have done. He writes for them, to
please them, to convince them that he is not "swelled head," nor