ng all things in this world
(except his specialty) through their spirits and essences, and, in
general, by reading books through their backs.

The problem of cultivating these powers in a man, when reduced to its
simplest terms, is reduced to the problem of cultivating his imagination
or organ of not needing to be told things.

However much a man may know about wise reading and about the principles
of economy in knowledge, in an infinite world the measure of his
knowledge is bound to be determined, in the long run, by the capacity of
his organ of not needing to be told things--of reading books through
their backs.

II--On Reading for Principles

I

On Changing One's Conscience

We were sitting by my fireplace--several of our club. I had just been
reading out loud a little thing of my own. I have forgotten the title.
It was something about Books that Other People ought to Read, I think. I
stopped rather suddenly, rather more suddenly than anybody had hoped. At
least nobody had thought what he ought to say about it. And I saw that
the company, after a sort of general, vague air of having exclaimed
properly, was settling back into the usual helpless silence one
expects--after the appearance of an idea at clubs.

"Why doesn't somebody say something?" I said.

P. G. S. of M.: "We are thinking."

"Oh," I said. I tried to feel grateful. But everybody kept waiting.

I was a good deal embarrassed and was getting reckless and was about to
make the very serious mistake, in a club, of seeing if I could not
rescue one idea by going out after it with another, when The Mysterious
Person (who is the only man in our club whose mind ever really comes
over and plays in my yard) in the goodness of his heart spoke up. "I
have not heard anything in a long time," he began (the club looked at
him rather anxiously), "which has done--which has made me feel--less
ashamed of myself than this paper. I----"

It seemed to me that this was not exactly a fortunate remark. I said I
didn't doubt I could do a lot of good that way, probably, if I wanted
to--going around the country making people less ashamed of themselves.

"But I don't mean that I feel really ashamed of myself about books I
have not read," said The Mysterious Person. "What I mean is, that I have
a kind of slinking feeling that I ought to--a feeling of being ashamed
for not being ashamed."

I told The M. P. that I thought New England was full of people; just
like h