How long do books inspire us?
Some books shaped my youthful mindset. I could not re-read them today.
It must have been in the mid 90’s. Our eldest daughter, by then in a third of fourth grade, came to me with a thin book she was trying to learn as a required reading at school. It was a cautionary tale written and published one hundred years before1, and most likely on my list of early school readings, too. “Dad, I cannot read it, I don’t understand anything about it.” “OK, let’s read it aloud, we’ll go through it”. After a couple of pages, giggling at more and more frivolous translations from the solemn tone of the book to a contemporary language a child could take in, I concluded: “You are perfectly right. The book is impossible to read.” The story conveyed the eternal truth about the virtue of helping others, but the reality in which the book was set, and even more the language, were so alien for a child living in the end of the 20th century, that it was no wonder she could not comprehend it. (Today our daughter holds a master’s degree in literature and works as an editor.)
My journeys into the world of books often took different paths from the official school curriculum. I read the abstracts of literary works I found boring, and dived deep into volumes not mentioned at school.
One of my earliest “mature” reading memory was my father’s promise: “When you grow up a bit, and read fluently, I’ll give you ‘W pustyni i w puszczy’ (In Desert and Wilderness) by Henryk Sienkiewicz. I must have been around eight or nine when I "had grown up enough” and read it, before the film adaptation hit the cinema screens in 1973. This was a story of the children of engineers working on the Suez Canal, a 14-year Polish boy, and an 8-year English girl, abducted for exchange of prisoners during the Mahdist War in the fall of the 19th century. The children escaped, and traversed on their own a huge swath of the African continent before being rescued at the shore of the Indian Ocean. The protagonist, only five years older than I was then, appeared to me as infinitely more mature, brave and resourceful, a role model for a young boy. Above all, the way he remained protective and supportive towards the younger girl, the weaker companion of their misery, soon became a beacon for my nascent interest how a boy should behave towards a girl.
The generation of my parents revelled in Sienkiewicz’s Trilogy “Ogniem i mieczem” (With Fire and Sword), “Potop” (The Deluge), “Pan Wołodyjowski” (Sir Michael / Colonel Wolodyjowski); vast, multi threaded fiction with historical background and patriotic edification. In my school years, only the middle volume was on the reading list, and one generation later, after the political transformation in Poland, Sienkiewicz was almost dismissed on the grounds of historical inaccuracies. Leaving the historical backdrop where it belongs, it is in the background, my takeaways from the novels are the notions of honour and duty, and the need to eradicate evil from one’s disposition to deserve the feelings of a beloved person.
My parents died early. Despite being lucky to find home in a close family, I missed a heartfelt parental advice, and sought it often in fiction. Would I have become an engineer if I had not read The Mysterious Island by Jules Verne? Perhaps not.
Among Verne’s characters, balloon crash survivors on an uninhabited island, it was not Pencroff, an adventurous, convivial sailor, not Gordon Spillet, a journalist, but an engineer, Cyrus Smith, whose traits and skills captivated me. His broad knowledge of science and the ability to apply it in the stark reality of limited resources, his integrity and diligence, must have sparked my interest towards a profession similar to his.
At the same time I sensed a discord between my vision of a role model and the character of captain Nemo. Paradoxically, because after all, Nemo was a technical genius, and finally the saviour of the Mysterious Island castaways. I admired his achievements, but I could not like him. This mistrust towards prodigious solitary visionaries, especially, as in the case of Nemo, who hold grudges and are quick to take revenge, has guided me through all life. (Guess my dear reader, who among the mighty does not pass my filter today?)
At the age of secondary school, I read Victor Hugo’s Les Miserables, followed by other novels by the same author. I can say that this work has saved my literature classes. Often when I had little to write about an obligatory reading, I referred to one of the plots in Les Miserables, winning not only an uncommon vantage point, but often a favourable assessment from the teacher, too.
Recently, I reached out for a yellowish and dilapidated volume of Les Miserables and started browsing it at random. And I was surprised to discover that now, after some four decades, I most likely would not re-read the novel. How come: the story upon which I build my lifelong conviction that the judgement of conscience prevails over the imperfect constructs of law, which taught me so much about courage and wisdom, duty and perseverance, does not appeal to me any more? The style seemed to me ancient, alien, too verbose. Which would not, in the slightest way, prompt me to deny that the book had been a formative one for me, decades ago.
The style seemed to me ancient, alien, too verbose. Which would not, in the slightest way, prompt me to deny that the book had been a formative one for me, decades ago.
There is a notion of cultural code: common canon of readings and general knowledge, which used to spread across generations. Our parents read, probably, most of the books their parents did, and some newly published. We have read some books from our parents’ libraries, and quite many new ones. Lucky those parents today, who successfully share their readings with children. More often, children dismiss readings which we suggest to them, and seek on their own, in the realm of modern young adult literature. Should we bemoan this transience? Not necessarily, I believe.
Even within a single life, interests and the point of view shift. When I served my obligatory year in the army, Ettiene Gilson’s History of Christian Philosophy in the Middle Ages (I read it in Polish translation) provided me with the space for internal emigration from the utter absurdity of indoctrination, which conscripts in a still communist-ruled country had to endure. Today, I am unlikely to rack my brain with the logical inferences of St. Thomas Aquinas, finding modern thinkers more worthy of attention. Nevertheless, no matter how my attitude towards Christian philosophy has evolved, I do not, and will not deny that at the time, Gilson’s interpretation of Church Fathers’ ideas helped keep my mind sane. Maybe, when I am retired, I will read the opus again, in a different light?
In the prime years of my life, filled with an intense work to sustain family and raise children, I still read whenever I could, both fiction and non-fiction. Some of the books impressed me, some passed by. There are some I would like to re-read (W. G. Sebald, Graham Greene.) In the couple of the most recent years, when children have set up their families, and one after another have become independent, I can afford more unhurried reading again. With books in English, now I no more need to resort to Polish translation.
Books read after school and college years were important, some of them revelatory, but none of them as influential as the early readings were. It is not because the earlier books were better, it is because I read them at the age of formation. Here I am slowly approaching the conclusion about books’ prime time. A literary work may be formative: forge the outlook of readers, imprint indelible marks in their lives, and inspire with role models, for one or two generations, rarely more.
A literary work may be formative: forge the outlook of readers, imprint indelible marks in their lives, and inspire with role models, for one or two generations, rarely more.
For the next decades, or even centuries, a writing may remain important, worth reading, referred to and discussed. But finally, the following generations will find cracks, unjust premises, language that no longer fits, like it has happened with Daniel Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe.2
I read Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment as a story about the redemptive influence that Sonia exerted on Raskolnikov. Today, in the days of Russian barbaric aggression, some dismiss the novel on the grounds that it authorises the state which “commits crimes without punishment, and inflicts punishment without a crime.” (I read the phrase not so long ago, hence the quotation marks, but for dear life I cannot find the source, and provide a proper footnote here.)
Yesterday’s hero’s virtues will fade because of the other side of their behaviour, which has become unacceptable today.
As it comes with every statistic, there are outliers. I believe that long after the last piece of coal is burned for heating, our grandchildren will still read about Scrooge counting the chunks of the fuel in a bucket by a stove, and about his transformation into a generous man. They will learn from Sophocles about the moral right to civil disobedience and tragedies that ensue from abuse of power. Further generations will read the Bible, because it is indelible from the human history.
Social norms evolve, and so do languages. We have to accept that our children may dismiss literary characters that used to be our role models. But at the same time, there is no need to feel shame for that we used to draw inspiration from books which are scrutinised and criticised today. This is the evolution, the progress of human understanding.
However, we should not dismiss or correct books too haphazardly. New editions, especially of titles intended for school curricula, could feature explanatory notes at the points where the protagonists’ actions, commendable in the author’s intention, seem controversial or deplorable to a modern reader. I do not feel competent enough to judge over editions that dramatically diverge from the author’s language, like in the case of Roald Dahl3. As a parent, I’d rather see my children (how long ago have they all graduated!) reading the original, annotated with footnote explanations where necessary. Privately, as a reader, I see that in the pursuit of political correctness the language acceptable in print and public speeches looses its flavour and becomes more and more bland.
If you have any thoughts on the above, please leave a comment. What were your formative books?
I forage into this writing as an amateur, not an impressively accomplished reader. Do I miss something grossly? Your remarks may improve my future writing.
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Thanks for reading; until next time!
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Maria Konopnicka, “O krasnoludkach i sierotce Marysi” (Dwarfs and Mary the Orphan), 1896
Robinson Crusoe at 300: why it’s time to let go of this colonial fairytale:
Roald Dahl books rewritten to remove language deemed offensive
Roald Dahl rewrites: edited language in books criticised as ‘absurd censorship’
https://www.theguardian.com/books/2023/feb/20/roald-dahl-books-rewrites-criticism-language-altered
Roald Dahl publisher announces unaltered 16-book ‘classics collection’
This was a really good and interesting read Jacek, I really like your writing style - it is very readable and engaging (the personal anecdotes and stories along the way are most interesting).
I agree with your central thesis that some books influence us for a season or two and then are replaced or superseded by other works and authors - but we cannot dismiss the influence and formative shaping those earlier books had on us. Then there are always those books and authors who we return to again and again and whose words, theories and ideas have shaped and continue to shape us.
One other thing, someone once said "What books do you want to master/become an expert in?" I have found this very helpful to think about.