Throughly enjoyed this collection of critical essays; the chapter on Jane Austen were particularly worthwhile. Cecil has the gift for making you want to read all kinds of books that you would never consider (And on cooler reflection, some I will still never consider, in particular John Ford). There are some wonderful moments of insight here, but plenty of places were more questions arise than are answered.
If this essay was necessary in 1949 when it was first published, it is today absolutely vital. As the title of the essay suggests, reading a work of literature is not a matter of letting the words pass before your eyes or simply following the plot. Reading is art which, if practised, can be done well. It involves, as he puts it, a long and unhurried process of self-training. That process begins by beginning from the right place. This means we have to acknowledge that what we are reading, whether it be a poem or a novel, is a work of imaginative fiction. Our aim is to see the work as it is. It is not, therefore, a work of mathematics or philosophy or history. This further entails taking care to see that we accept what the work is without complaining about what it is not. This seemingly simple approach is today all too frequently ignored by virtue-signalling pogressives keen to exhibit their woke credentials. In addition to starting from the correct position, we must also learn to understand the language in which a work is presented. This is all the more difficult today when publishers have lost sight of this fact. Cecil urges us to learn to accept the language of the work's form; of its age; and of the author's temperament. In this way, we can also broaden our taste by pushing at the limits of our own prejudices and preferences. Cecil's approach is essential to avoid the sort of hypercritical, moral relativism that has infected the academy and threatens to pull down the temple of English literature. The essay ends with some marvellous words of Sir Thomas Browne to prick any accusation of literary elitism: Cecil's argument applies equally to Agatha Christie and P.G. Wodehouse as it does Austen and Wordsworth.