17 August 2012

Books Are Real Friends

Sir John Lubbock, The Pleasures of Life (New York: D. Appleton, 1887), pp. 49-50:
This feeling that books are real friends is constantly present to all who love reading. "I have friends," said Petrarch, "whose society is extremely agreeable to me; they are of all ages and of every country. They have distinguished themselves both in the cabinet and in the field, and obtained high honors for their knowledge of the sciences. It is easy to gain access to them, for they are always at my service, and I admit them to my company, and dismiss them from it, whenever I please. They are never troublesome, but immediately answer every question I ask them. Some relate to me the events of past ages, while others reveal to me the secrets of Nature. Some teach me how to live, and others how to die. Some by their vivacity, drive away my cares and exhilarate my spirits; while others give fortitude to my mind, and teach me the important lesson how to restrain my desires, and to depend wholly on myself. They open to me, in short, the various avenues of all the arts and sciences, and upon their information I may safely rely in all emergencies. In return for all their services, they only ask me to accommodate them with a convenient chamber in some comer of my humble habitation, where they may repose in peace; for these friends are more delighted by the tranquility of retirement than with the tumults of society."
I have not had time to find the original passage in Petrarch. I do, however, have the time to curse the vandal who ripped several pages from the University of Toronto's copy of Conrad Rawski's translation of Petrarch's De remediis utriusque fortunae: May some hitherto unknown insect lay its eggs upon his eyes, causing him excruciating pain as the larvae devour first his sight and then his entire head from within.

A related post: Books Are the Departed Souls of Men