Summary of a conversation with a reader by hilaire belloc
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Hilaire Belloc (1870-1953) was a broadly prolific English author whose many works – from the late 1890s to the early 1950s – have fallen into considerable neglect. Like his friend and contemporary G.K. Chesterton (whose “The True Romance” and “A Piece of Chalk” are also on our reading list), he was a champion of older and more settled values in a time now mainly remembered for its modernism and constant change. Nevertheless, in his prime he was, with Chesterton, H.G. Wells and George Bernard Shaw, one of the biggest names in English literature.
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A Conversation with a Reader
By Hilaire Belloc
The People whose books sell largely must have had an experience of talking familiarly with the public who were reading one of my works. It was many years ago, the author was travelling down from Birmingham to London on the Great Western Railway. He was in a third-class smoking carriage with a person, who looked like a commercial traveler. It was in the early autumn and sunny weather. It was one of his too numerous books of essays.
They will read these books until their covers are worn out, and then they will buy another copy. They will tell their friends. More copies will be sold. The world has changed its complexion and my sun has risen at last.
As these pleasing thoughts succeeded each other the man opposite put down the volume with a sigh.
He said he was just looking over the bookstall and thinks he must have taken it up by mistake for another book. But he made a languid gesture, picked up the book again, looked at the back, pronounced the name wrongly, and then threw the book down again.
This time there was a note of bitterness in his complaint. It was having spent a shilling on it that rankled.
He picked up the book again and looked at the title. All these words of his were painful ones. They were indeed newspaper articles. He mentioned several, to repeat whose names would, I suppose. He suddenly became enthusiastic.
This time it was all about a dear little child. The train was slowing up for Oxford he got up, snapped his bag, and was evidently going to get out. No one else got in at Oxford. The train did not stop before Paddington.
The man was quite right. What with affectation in one place and false rhetoric in another and slipshod construction in a third and a ghastly lack of interest in all. Soon the beauty of South England healed this wound.
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