There are, indeed, books and books and there are
books which as Lamp said, are not books at all. I have come across both the
types—trashy as well as the useful. Both have left their impression behind, hut
I shall mention only those which influenced my mind for the better.
Looking back on the long vista of ears I think lane
Eyre was the first book that I read twice and would he glad to read it a third
time i somebody presented it to me. I was. I think, fifteen when I first came
upon it and what appealed to me most in it as the adorable fidelity and
affection with which Charlotte Bronte had written of children. The tragic
childhood of Jane Eyre wrought upon me a certain charm of attraction as well as
compassion. It is generally said that the true tears are those which are called
forth by the beauty of poetry. But the true tears are also those of a yet rarer
kind, which are called forth by the beauty of goodness and of such goodness. I
had an over following abundance in Jane Eyre. Her hero Rochester is a wonderful
and incomparable figure. How she came first, to conceive and finally to fashion that perfect study of
noble, faithful and suffering manhood was and still is a puzzle to me.
The next person in order of time was Shakespeare. He
did not impress me at all at that time. I am not ashamed to make this confession,
for I have now made amends and Shakespeare has been placed on the pedestal he desires
.Macbeth was the first drama that fell into my hands. I was horrified at the
diabolical crimes and tried to seek refuge in All’ s well That Ends well, lured
by the title. I very soon concluded that the title was supremely cynical one. I
detested Bertram and as absolutely disgusted Helena Falling in love with Paroles
-- that bragging coward. Shakespeare was done for. I did not read anything more
h him for a couple of years.
Having already read two or three abridged novels of
Dickens I began to feel that I was qualified enough to approach the man in person.
And I think. I did well in choosing “Da id Copper field” as the medium of my
communion with that great mind. How closely childhood resembled mine, how I
felt my heart go towards him and how I wept with him and for him. I can never
forget. He had lost his lather and was bad1 treated by his stepfather. I had last
my mother and was similarly treated by stepmother. Step- mother was weak but
always loving. M bather was weak and always loving. It seemed that Dickens had
really meant to point me. Side by side with Dickens I came under the influence
of Byron.
I had recently been discouraged in my love for
Raffia and his Harlow and Manfred with their burden of melancholy on them gave
me comfort. I kept repeating to myself.
My days are in the yellow leaf,
The fruits and flowers of lox e are gone.
The worm, the canker and the grief
Are mine alone.
But that was only a temporary phase. As soon as I
came over my ill-advised infatuation for Rufia, I hated Byron, for I loved
life. Wordsworth. I thought might give me solace. But his transcendentalism and
philosophies scared me away and I found comfort and an echo of my heart in
Shelly’s unbridled desires. How long I may continue under his charm. I do not
know, His idealism, his hope for mankind, his pursue of intellectual beauty, sympathy
for the woes of the suffering humanity have an interesting appeal for me.