Limits of language
Literary immortality is not always a good thing.
We have commented on language change several times before. It is to be regretted, as a barrier to today’s students appreciating Shakespeare; or just noted as a reason English spelling, if it were to be reformed, would not stay that way. In any case, there is not much one can do about it, in spite of the strenuous efforts of those trying to maintain a “proper” language (in English, Spanish, French or whatever). However, we have recently come upon one author who positively welcomed language change.
Washington Irving, in his Sketch-Book, has an imaginary conversation with a dusty tome from the sixteenth century, taken from a library of similar volumes. None had actually been read since being placed there. And none was likely to be read; they were turgid books on theology or obscure philosophies, collections of dreary sermons and of bad poetry. In a relatively short time the very language they were written in would become impenetrable to modern readers. And this, Irving thought, was “a wise precaution of Providence,” a way to clear away the otherwise tangled wilderness of writings. The inexorable change of language would consign most of them to eventual disappearance, while the works of genius, or at least the useful books, would be translated and preserved.
We think this is rather too neat and optimistic a picture to be entirely true. Tastes in literature change, and what one age thinks worth preserving, the next might not agree with. There are no doubt many scholars who would like to have more plays by Aeschylus and Sophocles, even at the cost of a couple by Euripides. And Shakespeare’s works were not very popular in the eighteenth century, seeming rather crude and barbaric by the standards of the Enlightenment. But nowadays we prefer King Lear complete with its dark ending to the comedies of manners produced in that time.
Still, there are certainly too many books printed to read even a tiny fraction of them. And most are well worth passing up. Our consultant with the large library thinks that visits to used-book shops would discourage many would-be novelists. The cheap shelves, the ones put outside in good weather, are filled with slightly dated novels at a dollar or two apiece. The buying public is not always impeccable in its choices and there might be an unappreciated gem or two among them; but we’ve not found any.
Even with the winnowing effect of time and language, plus critical and commercial neglect, there are certainly too many good books out there for any human to read in a lifetime. That could be a depressing thought. We prefer a more positive attitude: we’ll never run out.
