intention, with no hope of ever bringing the constantly-enlarging
scheme to a logical conclusion. My aim is not to provide a map, but a
compass--two very different instruments. In the way of general advice
it remains for me only to put before you three counsels which apply
more broadly than any I have yet offered to the business of reading.

You have within yourself a touchstone by which finally you can, and
you must, test every book that your brain is capable of comprehending.
Does the book seem to you to be sincere and true? If it does, then you
need not worry about your immediate feelings, or the possible future
consequences of the book. You will ultimately like the book, and you
will be justified in liking it. Honesty, in literature as in life,
is the quality that counts first and counts last. But beware of your
immediate feelings. Truth is not always pleasant. The first glimpse
of truth is, indeed, usually so disconcerting as to be positively
unpleasant, and our impulse is to tell it to go away, for we will have
no truck with it. If a book arouses your genuine contempt, you may
dismiss it from your mind. Take heed, however, lest you confuse
contempt with anger. If a book really moves you to anger, the chances
are that it is a good book. Most good books have begun by causing
anger which disguised itself as contempt. Demanding honesty from your
authors, you must see that you render it yourself. And to be honest
with oneself is not so simple as it appears. One's sensations and
one's sentiments must be examined with detachment. When you have
violently flung down a book, listen whether you can hear a faint voice
saying within you: "It's true, though!" And if you catch the whisper,
better yield to it as quickly as you can. For sooner or later the
voice will win. Similarly, when you are hugging a book, keep your
ear cocked for the secret warning: "Yes, but it isn't true." For bad
books, by flattering you, by caressing, by appealing to the weak or