Just as the expert in photomicrography amuses himself with
diatoms, or the zoologist with insects, shells, and birds of
gorgeous plumage, the bibliophile takes pleasure in reading
the newest book or monograph that is “highly important
and thought-provoking” but that no one else can seem to
ªnd a copy of. Our model of erudition uses this strategy in
a marvelous way to amaze his friends.
The symptoms of this disease include encyclopedic tendencies;
the mastery of numerous languages, some totally
useless; exclusive subscription to highly specialized journals;
the acquisition of all the latest books to appear in the
bookseller’s showcases; assiduous reading of everything
that is important to know, especially when it interests very
few; unconquerable laziness where writing is concerned;
and an aversion to the seminar and laboratory.
Naturally, our bookworm lives in and for his library,
which is monumental and overºowing. There he receives
his following, charming them with pleasant, sparkling, and
varied conversation—usually begun with a question something
like: “Have you read So-and-so’s book? (An American,
German, Russian, or Scandinavian name is inserted here.)
Are you acquainted with Such-and such’s surprising theory?”
And without listening to the reply, the erudite one
expounds with warm eloquence some wild and audacious
proposal with no basis in reality and endurable only in the
context of a chat about spiritual matters.
Discussing everything—squandering and misusing their
keen intellects—these indolent men of science ignore a very
simple and very human fact. They are censured by their own
friends, who feel more pity than respect. They seem only
vaguely aware at best of the well-known platitude that
erudition has very little value when it does not reºect the
preparation and results of sustained personal achievement.
All of the bibliophile’s fondest hopes are concentrated on
projecting an image of genius infused with culture. He never
stops to think that only the most inspired effort can liberate
the scholar from oblivion and injustice.
Fortunately, we needn’t dwell at length on this point in
order to correct mistaken social values. No one would deny
the fact that he who knows and acts is the one who counts,
not he who knows and falls asleep. We render a tribute of
respect to those who add original work to a library, and
withhold it from those who carry a library around in their
head. If one is to become a mere phonograph, it is hardly
worth the effort of complicating cerebral organization with
study and reºection. Our neurons must be used for more
substantial things. Not only to know but also to transform
knowledge; not only to experience but also to construct—
this is the standard for the genuine man of science
to follow. Thus, let us offer tribute and gratitude to those who leave
a wake of brilliant observations, and let us forget those who
wore themselves out with nothing to show for it but the
transformation of their effusive, sonorous words into phonograph
records. Like the popular tenor, the eloquent fount
of erudition may undoubtedly receive enthusiastic plaudits throughout life in the warm intimacy of social gatherings,
but he waits in vain for acclamation from the great theater
of the world. The wise man’s public lives far away, or does
not yet exist; it reads instead of listens; it is so austere and
correct that recognition with gratitude and respect is only
extended to new facts that are placed in circulation on the
cultural market.