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…Throughout the long twelve hundred miles there was never a page that was void of interest, never one that you could leave unread without loss, never one that you would want to skip, thinking you could find higher enjoyment in some other thing. There never was so wonderful a book written by man; never one whose interest was so absorbing, so unflagging, so sparkingly renewed with every reperusal. The passenger who could not read it was charmed with a peculiar sort of faint dimple on its surface (on the rare occasions when he did not overlook it altogether); but to the pilot that was an italicized passage; indeed, it was more than that, it was a legend of the largest capitals, with a string of shouting exclamation points at the end of it; for it meant that a wreck or a rock was buried there that could tear the life out of the strongest vessel that ever floated. It is the faintest and simplest expression the water ever makes, and the most hideous to a pilot’s eye. In truth, the passenger who could not read this book saw nothing but all manner of pretty pictures in it painted by the sun and shaded by the clouds, whereas to the trained eye these were not pictures at all, but the grimmest and most dead-earnest of reading-matter.
Now when I had mastered the language of this water and had come to know every trifling feature that bordered the great river as familiarly as I knew the letters of the alphabet, I had made a valuable acquisition. But I had lost something, too. I had lost something which could never be restored to me while I lived. All the grace, the beauty, the poetry had gone out of the majestic river! I still keep in mind a certain wonderful sunset which I witnessed when steamboating was new to me. A broad expanse of the river was turned to blood; in the middle distance the red hue brightened into gold, through which a solitary log came floating, black and conspicuous; in one place a long, slanting mark lay sparkling upon the water; in another the surface was broken by boiling, tumbling rings, that were as many-tinted as an opal; where the ruddy flush was faintest, was a smooth spot that was covered with graceful circles and radiating lines, ever so delicately traced; the shore on our left was densely wooded, and the somber shadow that fell from this forest was broken in one place by a long, ruffled trail that shone like silver; and high above the forest wall a clean-stemmed dead tree waved a single leafy bough that glowed like a flame in the unobstructed splendor that was flowing from the sun. There were graceful curves, reflected images, woody heights, soft distances; and over the whole scene, far and near, the dissolving lights drifted steadily, enriching it, every passing moment, with new marvels of coloring.

I remember reading this passage many years ago in a book about problems in the philosophy of art. It is beautiful writing but it also points to a potential paradox about art - The more you know about an art work (say a novel) the less you can appreciate the art! If I remember rightly the trick is to find a balance with some background knowledge and analysis to allow you to appreciate an art work, but not over-analysis. An example: While doing a philosophical analysis of this passage I am unable to appreciate the the art of this beautiful piece of writing.

I'm not sure if this is even true as I have never got to the point of over analysis, but maybe i haven't tried hard enough? I'm just going to re-read this lovely passage again for its artistry and leave it at that.

That's very interesting, Clinton! When I highlighted that passage and felt the need to share it, I had simply been struck by the comparison of the river to a book—and then it seemed a pity not to include the gorgeous language in Twain's recollection of the sunset. But now I see the point about analysis of a book or an art work possibly ruining one's initial and unschooled reaction to it—as learning the river had done for Twain. How to find the balance indeed! I'm glad you were able to appreciate the passage anyway!

I think I will read this after I finish a book by a woman first (i’m trying to get it 50-50). It is such lovely writing and non-fiction may suit me well just now. Thanks for bringing it to my attention Fionnuala!

You're reading it!

When it comes to description, Twain can grow quite poetic (he was a secret Romantic).

Clinton wrote: "I think I will read this after I finish a book by a woman first (i’m trying to get it 50-50). It is such lovely writing and non-fiction may suit me well just now. Thanks for bringing it to my atten..."

Just be prepared for lots of technical detail on steamboating, Clinton.

Ken wrote: "You're reading it!
When it comes to description, Twain can grow quite poetic (he was a secret Romantic)."

I'm sure I must be reading it because you mentioned it, Ken. Thank you because I'm enjoying the journey and the views very much. I love geography too and this is full of it.

These quotations are just marvelous, Fionnuala! Thank you for the longer passages you've included in the comments.

You're welcome, Caterina. I'm reading an ebook which makes posting long passages easy—and it's good to hear that the ones that appeal to me particularly work for you too.