# Making the Most of One's Mind/Chapter 6

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READING
WE have seen that reading is one of the three main ways of acquiring knowledge. But when we take up a book, it is not always for the sake of learning something. Often we read for amusement; but even in such reading we cannot fail to pick up much knowledge by the way. Reading a novel is really equivalent to experiencing at second hand. The man who writes such a book must himself know a great many things about the circumstances of the characters he introduces, and as you read his descriptions you cannot but acquire knowledge. The information gathered from a novel may be inaccurate, but this does not alter the fact that we cannot read a novel without some effect upon our stock of knowledge. Nor does the influence of novels stop at mere knowledge. In higher matters, too, we learn from them. The lessons may be for good or for evil, but lessons there are. We have ​to admit that there is point in Dr. Walter C. Smith's protest about—
"Those new-fangled consciences of ours, Formed not by nature but by novels."
The fact of the matter is that reading cannot help influencing our lives, since in the wider sense intercourse must include reading; after all, reading is a form of intercourse. Indeed the great advantage of literature is that it enables us to keep company with the greatest minds of all time. It is true it has to be admitted that it is a rather lopsided intercourse. We are all made to feel the unresponsiveness of the mere book. In our endeavours to educate ourselves we ought to recognize the necessity of actual human intercourse. This idea is introduced here because it is mainly in connexion with reading that the great distinction is usually drawn between the private student and the student who obtains his education in a school or college. The University of London, for example, has two kinds of students. The internal students are those who belong to some of the institutions connected with the University, who receive instruction there under teachers recognized by the University, and who are not admitted to examination for degrees till they have made the necessary attendances, and are certified by their teachers as having done satisfactory work. The external students, on the other hand, can study where they please; they may have teachers, or they ​may do the whole of their work privately; all that the University demands is that they shall pass the prescribed examinations and thus show that they have obtained the minimum amount of knowledge necessary to win the degree. External students, whatever their disadvantages, must reach exactly the same standard as the internals, so that from one point of view the winner of an external degree deserves more credit than the winner of an internal.
On the other hand, it is objected that the external student loses something because he does not mix with other students. He may have a private tutor, and thus share the advantages of teaching enjoyed by his internal rivals, but it is maintained that he is at a disadvantage, because he has not had the benefit of intercourse in the college class-rooms, common-rooms, quadrangles, and playing fields. It is no doubt highly desirable that a student should mix with his fellows. What he learns from his books is one thing, what he learns from his teachers is another; but his fellow students have still a third kind of training to give him, and wherever possible he should avail himself of the training that only his fellows can provide.
The external student who has no teacher is apt to over-emphasize the value of reading: he is apt to become bookish. But there are other things to be acquired than the knowledge to be found in books. People get a certain ease and polish from mingling ​with one another, and besides this they acquire the wer of applying what knowledge they possess. power Many men who are full of knowledge are very awkward in their everyday life, and are unable to use their knowledge to the best advantage. It is generally found that people who get their knowledge entirely from books, and mix little with their fellows, are at a disadvantage in life. They are called bookworms, and are generally regarded as unpractical persons. They are not at home with other people. They are uncomfortable in society and make other people uncomfortable. The remedy of course is not to give up reading, but to combine reading with that amount of intercourse that enables them to use with effect what they have acquired from books.
Perhaps it is not unnecessary to add that all this warning against being too bookish is rather dangerous reading for many internal students. As a rule these find it easy to resist the temptation to read too much. What they need in most cases is an exhortation to read more. The matter is put before you squarely: it is for you to determine in which direction your danger lies.
In any case you must read a great deal. It is accordingly of the highest importance that you should learn all that there is to be known about it. At the very start we have to consider what may be called the mechanism of reading. It consists essentially in the translation of visual signs into mental states. One person thinks, and to represent his ​thought causes certain marks to be put on paper or elsewhere. Another person sees these marks and repeats in his mind the processes that went on when the other thought. The first thing to be noticed in this passage from printed characters to thought processes is the time element. We do not sufficiently realize the great differences in the speed with which different people read. Experiments have been made, and it is found that when great numbers of people are tested, they differ so widely that the fastest readers can read six times quicker than the slowest. Naturally we want to know the cause of this enormous difference. No doubt the natural endowment of the individual has a good deal to do with the different rates of speed. Some are naturally quicker than others in all their mental and physical reactions. But we are not to suppose that it is merely a matter of Quick Wits and Hard Wits again. A quick-witted boy in Ascham's sense of the term may not be a particularly quick reader. His strong point is quickness of apprehension. As soon as a point is put before him he understands its bearing. He will learn quicker from a book than would a slower-witted boy, but he does not necessarily read faster.
Many teachers are inclined to say that the slowness of reading that sometimes marks quite quick-witted people results from the bad way in which reading is taught in schools. At school what is technically known as a reading lesson is always a ​lesson in reading aloud. No doubt at the early stages of learning to read it is necessary to have a certain amount of audible reading in order that the teacher may know that the pupil is really following word by word the passage that is being read. But it does not follow that this method should be kept up all the way through school. For instance, when the tests were made to discover the speed of reading they did not take the form of reading aloud. The investigator's object was not to discover which of the persons tested could gabble off most quickly a given passage. The test was how long each person took to master the contents of a certain number of pages. The person had not to pronounce each word or even to isolate each word in his mind. What he had to do was to elicit the complete sense of the passage.
Many people, even when they are reading silently, pronounce "to themselves" each of the words as it occurs. Some go further and make a half audible sound. Those who sit beside such readers are annoyed by a sort or irregular hissing sound that is kept up all the time. Even in the case of those who make no audible sound it is often possible to detect by the movements of the lips those who pronounce inwardly the words as they read. All such lip movements are an interference with the speed of reading. You should accordingly get some friend to observe you when you are off your guard, and tell you whether you use lip movements as you read. ​If you find that you do make such movements, it will be worth your while to practise reading without them.
Some authorities are beginning to recommend that reading should be taught merely with a view to making out the sense, and with no attempt at pronouncing the words. Others point out that the main function of reading is to bring out the expression the author put into the words. J. G. Herder, for example, recommended that Homer should be read as if he were singing in the streets. Obviously we have here a quarrel that arises because the disputants are speaking of different things. One set wants the pupils to acquire speed in rapidly getting the meaning of a passage, the other set wants the pupil to acquire the power of bringing out the full content of the passage for the benefit of both himself and others. What we are primarily concerned with at present is the first purpose, the power to dig out of a passage in the shortest possible time all the information it has to give us. By reading in this sense we mean reading so as to acquire knowledge. Enjoyment and expression will have their turn afterwards.
Schools are beginning to recognize the need for training in this practical kind of reading. Pupils must still read aloud, as this gives a certain training of the vocal organs, and besides is preparatory to the artistic use of reading; but they are also getting practice in "silent reading." A passage is pre​scribed, and a certain time allowed. At the end of this time the pupil has to state how far he has read, and then stand an examination on the subject-matter. It is claimed that this method should help in reducing the tendency to lip movements. Those who take this view say that pupils rapidly acquire the power of gathering in the meaning entirely by the eye, and get rid of the handicap of muscular movements or attempts to move. Suppose you find that in reading you are given to lip movements and set about suppressing them, you will probably find that you experience certain tensions in your throat that you can associate with the suppressed attempt to pronounce internally the words that you are reading. It is obviously greatly to your advantage to get rid of these abortive muscular movements. They waste time and direct energy into wrong channels. The best way to get rid of these tensions is to increase the speed of your reading. As this speed increases, you will probably find that you have a tendency to drop the word as the unit of language, and to adopt the phrase as that unit. That is, the mind begins to take in the meaning of the whole passage without pausing on the individual words at all. Very quick readers, indeed, seem to take in the sense not even by phrases but by sentences. In truth, there are those who claim to gulp down meaning by paragraphs.
Your first business will be to find out your present rate of reading, that is your maximum rate of read​ing as a purely mechanical process of absorbing meaning. The question is, how many words you can read per minute and understand the meaning of the passage you are dealing with. Take some ordinary book of no great difficulty. Let it be on history, biography, travels—anything you like, so long as it is not so technical as to demand study rather than reading. Now count the number of words on each of five ordinary full pages. You will find that the number of words is approximately the same on each page, but to make quite sure add your numbers together and divide by five. This will give you the average number of words per page. Then open the book at random and read as strenuously as you can for, say, ten minutes. If possible, get some friend to watch the time for you, so that you may give your whole attention to the reading without being distracted by keeping your eye on the clock. You will, of course, read silently, and you will remember that your purpose is to get the sense of the passage. You are reading for information, not for style or for anything else. When the time is up you will count the number of complete pages that you have read and multiply this number by the average number of words per page. Next, to this total you will add the number of words you have read on the unfinished page: for it is very unlikely that you will chance to be just at the end of a page when the time is up. Having thus obtained the exact number of words you have read in ten minutes, all you have to do is ​to divide this number by ten, and you get your rate per minute.
It is impossible for me to guess at all accurately what your rate may be, since people differ so very much. It is interesting to know that solemn public speakers utter on an average one hundred words per minute; ordinary speakers one hundred and twenty; quick speakers one hundred and fifty; and very quick speakers sometimes rise to two hundred and even go a trifle beyond that rate. But silent reading should be very much quicker than reading aloud. You should be disappointed if you do not reach three hundred words per minute. Mr. Arnold Bennett, in his little book called The Truth about an Author, estimates the rate of an average reviewer's reading as eight words per second, which, of course, gives 480 per minute. The quickest readers that I know can read an ordinary novel in about two hours. Taking this to mean about 100,000 words, we have a rate of reading of about 830 words per minute. It is true that there are readers who claim a still higher rate, and there is a professor in Ireland who states that his rate is seventy words per second, which gives 4,200 per minute, or more than five times the rate of the quickest reader I know. This professor could toss off ordinary 100,000 word novels at the rate of one every twenty-four minutes, and in fact he tells us that in holiday time half a dozen novels a day is his usual allowance.
You are not to be discouraged by these appalling ​figures. You may not be able to reach the eight hundred rate, but, on the other hand, you must not rest content with the figure you have at present reached as shown by your recent test. Whatever that figure is, it can be considerably increased by a little intelligent practice—unless, indeed, you are in the very exceptional position of having had practice of this kind already. Most people do not pay any attention to their rate of reading, and we all read in such an easy-going way that a little speeding up is always possible. Further, you are not to suppose that any increase in speed necessarily implies a falling off in quality. As a matter of fact, the opposite is nearer the truth. Increase in speed almost necessarily increases the value of the reading. You are aware that in the addition of long columns the quicker we tot them up the more likely are we to be accurate. So the additional concentration necessary to increase our speed produces its result in increased efficiency in the mastering of the subjects about which we read. In the experiments made on the speed of reading it was found that the quickest readers were, on the whole, best able to stand an examination on the subject-matter they had read.
You are not forgetting that all this applies to reading in order to acquire information. There are other kinds of reading in which speed is not only of no consequence as an advantage, but is a positive disadvantage. We may want to savour what we read: to enjoy it as we go along. The style of the ​book may in itself be excellent and add to our pleasure. Not merely the thing said but the way in which it is said may attract us. No doubt mere style apart from matter is nothing more than a tinkling cymbal, and may be safely neglected. But admirable form joined to worthy matter makes a combination that deserves more than a hurried reading, however thorough that reading may be.
Further, there is a kind of reading that demands not speed but leisure. Its purpose is not to supply material to the reader, but rather to direct him in using material he has at his disposal. It calls upon him to work up his mental content in order to produce certain definite effects. Take a descriptive poem, for example. Here the poet certainly does his best to make pictures rise in the mind of the reader, but he does not supply the material. He rather depends upon the reader having at his disposal a number of ideas that may be manipulated by the words that the poet uses. When you read a fine description in Tennyson or in Scott you are not being informed so much as being stimulated. Your mind has to elaborate the suggestions supplied by the poet. This is why in reading of this kind you often half close the book, and, keeping your finger between the leaves, let your mind wander over the ideas called up by the poet and combine them in the way he desires.
A consideration of this kind of reading brings out clearly the necessity for work on the part of the ​reader. It is a coöperative process in which the reader must do his share. In reading a purely informative book, the reader must put out a certain amount of effort, but it is sometimes imagined that in reading a pleasant book of poetry the reader is entitled to take things easy. No doubt the kind of work he must do in reading such a book is different from that he must do in dealing with a text-book. But there must be work of some kind. In order that a book of poetry may attain its end, there must be two workers: the poet and the reader. There are, in fact, two kinds of poets, those who write poetry and those who enjoy it when written. We are tempted to call those who write, active poets, and those who read, passive; and there is a certain justification in using these terms. But there is danger of misunderstanding, since the terms would seem to imply that the reader is absolutely passive, instead of being merely passive as compared with the writer. Unless the reader actively responds, the work of the writer is in vain. The poet knows that his reader has in his mind somewhere ideas of heather, and green and purple and gold, and shimmering seas, and twinkling stars, and golden sunshine and silvery moonbeams—and out of this store he calls up just the elements he needs to produce the effect he happens to want at any particular time. If the reader lacks any special kind of experience, the poet makes a failure with that reader every time the verses call for that sort of experience. This is why certain ​poets are unintelligible to young people, why Browning, for example, has so few readers as compared with Tennyson.
We read for information, and we read for pleasure. But while we are acquiring knowledge and experiencing pleasure we are making certain gains in passing. Since reading is a means of intercourse, by practising it we acquire a command of the chief instrument of intercourse—words. Every now and again it becomes fashionable to disparage words, to point out that they are mere breath, empty wind. We are told that men are apt to mistake words for things and to rest content with saying without doing. The philosopher Hobbes is generally quoted: "Words are the counters of wise men, but the money of fools." Now all this is perfectly true, but it only serves as a warning against becoming the slaves of words. The common term of contempt is "mere" words, and here the adjective indicates the essential distinction. So long as words are used without reference to the things they ought to signify, obviously they are impostors and cannot help misleading us. But, on the other hand, without words how would our boasted intelligence fare? We may not go so far as Shelley when he says, speaking of the Deity,
"He gave man speech, and speech created thought,"
but we cannot deny that without speech it would be impossible to carry on intercourse on its present ​high plane. Learned books have been written discussing whether it is ever possible to think without words. The dispute has not yet been definitely settled, but it is now generally admitted that nothing like continuous thought can be maintained without words or their equivalents.
It is worth your while, then, to take stock of the words at your disposal. Leaving out of account all other languages, it may be interesting to inquire how many words there are in English. In Professor W. W. Skeat's Etymological Dictionary of the English Language (1910), we find that there is a total of 14,286 words. Yet when we turn to some of those huge dictionaries referred to in our next chapter we find that they reach, and even exceed, a total of 300,000. Obviously many of the words included in these immense compendia are not really English words. Besides, we may count a word as only one, or we may count it as a great many. In Skeat the word do counts for only one of the 14,286: in other dictionaries it may be expanded so as to include all its changes. Thus we may regard as separate words does, doth, did, done, doing, did'st, and even don't and didn't. It is thus not difficult to see how dictionaries differ in the number of words they recognize. Naturally you want to discover how many words you know, but it is difficult to find out. An ordinary educated Englishman knows practically all the words that are really English, and may fairly claim to know almost all the words that appear ​in Skeat, and a good many more when we take into account technical terms, anglicized foreign words, and slang. It does not seem unreasonable to credit him with a knowledge of well over twenty thousand words. But if we turn to distinguished writers and find out how many words they use, we get a surprise. Shakespeare is famous for the richness of his vocabulary, and yet we find that those who have made a careful calculation of his words give him only 15,000. Some, it is true, for reasons similar to those we have suggested in the case of dictionaries, give him 17,000. But even at this higher estimate we have the fact that our most distinguished author is credited with a smaller vocabulary than is claimed for the ordinary educated Englishman. Milton, indeed, has a still lower record: his poems do not include more than 8,000 words. Even the English Bible is content with 6,000.
The question naturally arises: if an educated person knows practically all the words in an ordinary English dictionary, how does it come about that the number of words in Shakespeare and others is so small? The answer is that we are all inclined to confound two different kinds of vocabularies—the vocabulary of words that we know, and the vocabulary of words that we use. We all know a much greater number of words than we use. It is sometimes said that the number of words even an educated person habitually uses amounts to only about 4,000. A Scottish schoolmaster has taken the ​trouble to count up the number of words such a person would find it necessary to know in order to express his ideas, and finds that the minimum is 17,000 words. But this calculation in no way affects the estimate of the number of words habitually used by the educated person. An illiterate peasant is sometimes said to get along with a vocabulary of between 300 and 400 words, though it would be easy to demonstrate that he knows a great many more words than he actually uses. The number of words at the command of a person gives a fair index of his literary status. Among the Chinese, for example, it was required from anyone who aspired to the rank of "imperial historian" that he should be master of at least 9,000 words, and in the Chinese examinations a first or second class depends upon the number of words at the command of the candidate.
We have accordingly to distinguish between the living word and the word as found in the dictionary. Schoolmasters long ago used to prepare lists of words for their pupils to learn, but this was a mistake. We should not go to a dictionary to dig out words so as to use them, but should learn words by meeting them in ordinary speech and in books. We shall speak of the use of dictionaries in our next chapter. In the meantime, we have to note that we all use words in three different connexions, so that we may be said to have each three different vocabularies. We have a speaking vocabulary, a reading vocabulary and a writing vocabulary. In the case ​of an educated person, the reading vocabulary is much fuller than the speaking vocabulary, and usually a good deal fuller than the writing vocabulary. We know and understand words in our reading that we would never think of using in our ordinary speech, and when it comes to writing we find that we have all a tendency to limit ourselves to the use of certain words, though there are many others that we might use if we set ourselves deliberately to employ all the words we know. If you could have a complete vocabulary prepared of all the words used by, say, Dr. Johnson, and another of the words used by Lord Macaulay, you would find that the two vocabularies differ materially; and even if you take two writers who are contemporaries, you will still find a difference, though not quite so marked. Your own vocabulary, you may rest assured, is different from anybody else's vocabulary, though it will be quite like those of your friends or fellow students who are living the same life and doing the same kind of studies as you. In order that people should understand each other readily, it is essential that their vocabularies should coincide to a great extent, and in particular that their reading vocabularies should be the same. It is not so important that we should all use the same words, as it is that we should all understand the same words.
The best means of enriching your vocabulary is reading. Writing helps, no doubt, particularly in the way of making your knowledge of words more ​exact. But our first acquaintance with a word should be made by meeting it in active service, not on the retired list as found in the dictionary. In reading your text-books you will often find that what you are really doing is mastering a technical vocabulary. When you are studying the particular terms used in any subject you are, of course, enlarging your vocabulary and doing it deliberately. We acquire clearness of thought in any subject by analysing out the exact meaning of each term. We are, in fact, studying the subject-matter by means of the words that represent it.
But there is need for a much wider range in the use of words, and this may be acquired in the course of what is called general reading. We may read an author solely for his style, in which case we are studying his work in quite as technical a way as if we were reading a text-book. But then, again, we may read an author merely to enjoy his work as art. We read for the sake of the effect he produces on our minds. We may or we may not acquire definite information from this reading, but we do undoubtedly acquire a vocabulary and a certain familiarity with the use of words.
It should not be supposed that our vocabulary is to be recruited entirely from prose reading. In fact, there is nothing more valuable as an aid in forming our prose vocabulary than the intelligent reading of poetry. You will find Shakespeare extremely useful in this matter. It is striking to find that not ​more than between 500 and 600 of his words are now obsolete. Tennyson is another artist in words, whose works well repay careful study by those who wish to enrich their vocabulary. You are not to suppose that such reading will encourage you to use poetical words in plain prose. The value of reading such writers lies in the sense you acquire of the value of words, their possibilities, the need for variety, and above all, the fact that under certain conditions there is only one word that will meet our needs.
When we look at reading from this point of view we have to consider the problem of what is sometimes called "desultory reading." By this term is usually meant reading that is by the way, that has no definite bearing upon our studies, that is, in fact, unsystematic. Many people roundly condemn this form of reading, and maintain that all our reading should be definitely mapped out and arranged according to a settled plan. To this view no serious objection need be raised, but a settled plan ought to make provision for a certain amount of reading of a very general kind. There is room in life for a limited amount of purely random reading, and such reading is all the more necessary in the case of those who are following a severely systematic course of study. What is sometimes called "browsing" among books is a valuable part of a general education, though obviously it must be kept within narrow limits. To be allowed to follow one's own inclination among the books in a well-chosen general library is a means ​of developing one's individuality. We are not here thinking about the possibility of a student reading objectionable books that raises quite a different question. What we are concerned with is the need for a certain amount of elasticity in the choice of reading material.
Another point that is worth your attention is the tone to be acquired by reading of a certain class. If you desire to write in a particular way, you will find it very helpful to read books exemplifying that way. If you wish to write with an elevated tone you should saturate your mind with the Bible or with such writers as Burke. If you wish to cultivate an easy, light tone, such writers as Goldsmith or Addison will give you what you want. You will. often find, indeed, that it is wise to read a writer whom you do not greatly admire, in order to get rid of certain peculiarities of your own style.
Having now considered the different kinds of reading, we are in a position to look into some of those practical problems that face the student. Foremost among these is the question of skipping. You are not to make the mistake of treating this as a purely moral matter. There are cases where skipping is contemptible; there are others in which to do anything else is foolish. The important thing is not the number of pages you cover, but what you get out of them. Your reading must be dominated by purpose. You go to a book for a definite purpose; unless you make the book serve that purpose you ​have not used it wisely. Not to skip may be a very immoral proceeding. You go to a book to find examples of certain grammatical constructions: it is altogether wrong to read doggedly through it. You wish to form an idea of a man's character from his biography. A great deal of the matter in the book we take up may be of no value to us whatever and ought to be ruthlessly skipped, if we hope to look our conscience in the face. The mere desire to complete a book is not necessarily a moral desire. The spirit of the collector, the lust for completeness, rather than a good going conscience accounts for the unwillingness of many people to skip. There is no breach of contract with a book if we drop it when we find that, on closer inspection, it falls short of what we expected.
Where it is wrong to skip is in the book that we find difficult, and therefore unattractive. It is the old question of thoroughness over again. If the difficult or dull part is essential to our purpose, skipping is out of the question. If I am trying to form a just estimate of a man's character from an autobiography, I may feel intensely bored with certain chapters, and may honestly, and even justly, regard them as in themselves worthless trash, but for my present purpose it is imperative that I get all the materials for forming a true judgment of the man's character. With regard to difficulty it is worth noting that we are not justified in skipping a chapter on the plea that we do not understand it, ​for, obviously, we cannot be sure that we do not understand it until we have finished it. Whether we should read it a second time or not depends upon our attitude towards the whole book. It may be quite a desirable thing to neglect the difficult chapter till we have read all the rest of the book twice.
Often all that we want from a book is its essential message for us. It is often quite easy to get the heart out of a book without reading more than a quarter of it. Many German books, for example, seem to be written on the principle of telling in the first three-quarters of the book all that other people have said on the subject, leaving the remaining quarter for the author's own contribution. In cases of this kind it is folly for an experienced reader to trouble with the preliminary part; though, to be sure, if the reader is a beginner in the subject the whole book must be read. Everything depends on the needs of the individual reader.
The matter of marking books as you read them calls for attention. Obviously this can interest us only in connexion with books that belong to us. It is quite a wise plan to mark text-books. Marks at the side, underlinings, numbering of separate points in paragraphs, backward and forward references—all are valuable in a book of this kind, and increase the value of the book for the person who has made the marks.
With regard to ordinary books in literature, history, art, criticism, it is probable that we should ​be very moderate in our use of marks. Some writers recommend a more or less technical series of marks to indicate various criticisms of the text. A couple of lines at the margin, for example: "Signifies that this paragraph contains the main or one of the main propositions to be proved or illustrated in this chapter: the staple or one of the staples on which the chain hangs." Another sign conveys the meaning: "This sentiment is true and will bear expanding, and will open a field indefinite in extent"; while another serves to inform us that: "This, if carried out, would not stand the test of experience, and is therefore, incorrect." Other signs indicate good taste and bad taste, irrelevancy and repetition, accuracy and error, good arrangement and bad.
All this might be useful if your purpose were to give a very thorough review of the book for the benefit of somebody else—though my experience of reviewers does not lead me to gather that they have such a starkly pedantic scheme—but you will find it highly desirable to adopt a much simpler plan. You must read critically, of course, but your aim should be more to profit by what your author says than to indicate to him where he has gone wrong. A single line at the side to indicate an important passage, a double line for a more important passage, and a triple line—to be used very rarely indeed—for passages of vital moment, a? here and there when you are not sure about the facts or opinions, or where you wish to make further inquiries, a ​reference to some other part of the book where the same matter is dealt with, an indication of some other book or passage bearing on the same subject—these you will probably find sufficient for your purpose. It is a fundamental principle that the marks of importance mean importance to you, and not to people at large; further, that they mean importance to you in connexion with the particular purpose you have before you in reading the book. Thus the marks you put on a book give it an individuality and make it of special value to you. When you want to refer to a passage in a book you have so marked, you have no difficulty in locating it by merely turning over the pages. For the only passages that you have remembered well enough to wish to recall are those that struck you most in your reading, and those will naturally have your "important" mark. You will, of course, realize that if you use marks very freely, you must pay for this by the increased difficulty of locating a passage afterwards. Moderation in marking is highly to be commended.