The love of literature, of language, of the mystery of the mind and heart showing themselves in the minute, strange, and unexpected combinations of letters and words, in the blackest and coldest print—the love which he had hidden as if it were illicit and dangerous, he began to display, tentatively at first, and then boldly, and then proudly.
Interpretation
This quote expresses the deep and often hidden love for literature and language, revealing the profound connection between words and the human experience.
John Edward Williams illustrates the profound and sometimes secret affection an individual may have for literature and language. The quote conveys how this love evolves from a timid display to a bold and proud proclamation, emphasizing the beauty and complexity of expressing emotions through words and the written form. It highlights the intimate connection between the mind, heart, and the art of language as a means of understanding oneself and the world.
In practice
During a book club meeting to discuss the impact of literature on personal growth, this quote could be shared.
Sometimes, immersed in his books, there would come to him the awareness of all that he did not know, of all that he had not read; and the serenity for which he labored was shattered as he realized the little time he had in life to read so much, to learn what he had to know.
A war doesn’t merely kill off a few thousand or a few hundred thousand young men. It kills off something in a people that can never be brought back. And if a people goes through enough wars, pretty soon all that’s left is the brute, the creature that we—you and I and others like us—have brought up from the slime.
Of course there are big differences in length and character and vocabulary, but each level has its particular pleasures when it comes to the words one can use and the way one uses them.
What I've always tried to find in my books are points at which the private lives of the characters, and also my own, intersect with the public life of the culture.
We need the books that affect us like a disaster, that grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from everyone, like a suicide. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea inside us.
To whom do I give my new elegant little book? Cui dono lepidum novum libellum?
Give the reader at least one character he or she can root for.
The poet gives us his essence, but prose takes the mould of the body and mind entire.
Subscribe for the occasional hand-picked quote. No noise.