Of Kings’ Treasuries
论君王的宝库（论书一节）
约翰·罗斯金 John Ruskin（1819–1900）
1864 年演讲；1865 年出版

冷冻图书馆 · 开架书库 · S-005019 · https://coldlibrary.com/s/005019
权利：1864 年演讲，1865 年出版；约翰·罗斯金卒于 1900 年。所用 1894 年版印行于他生前。已按澳大利亚、欧盟、英国、中国大陆和美国的规则核对（截至 2026 年 10 月 11 日）。仅供参考，不是法律意见。
来源：Project Gutenberg，https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/1293/pg1293.txt（取于 2026-10-11）
中文译文：Claude（AI），2026 · CC0 1.0
生成于 2026-10-14，来自 https://coldlibrary.com/open-stacks/ruskin-of-kings-treasuries

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But, granting that we had both the will and the sense to choose our friends well, how few of us have the power! or, at least, how limited, for most, is the sphere of choice! Nearly all our associations are determined by chance or necessity; and restricted within a narrow circle. We cannot know whom we would; and those whom we know, we cannot have at our side when we most need them. All the higher circles of human intelligence are, to those beneath, only momentarily and partially open. We may, by good fortune, obtain a glimpse of a great poet, and hear the sound of his voice; or put a question to a man of science, and be answered good-humouredly. We may intrude ten minutes’ talk on a cabinet minister, answered probably with words worse than silence, being deceptive; or snatch, once or twice in our lives, the privilege of throwing a bouquet in the path of a princess, or arresting the kind glance of a queen. And yet these momentary chances we covet; and spend our years, and passions, and powers, in pursuit of little more than these; while, meantime, there is a society continually open to us, of people who will talk to us as long as we like, whatever our rank or occupation;—talk to us in the best words they can choose, and of the things nearest their hearts. And this society, because it is so numerous and so gentle, and can be kept waiting round us all day long,—kings and statesmen lingering patiently, not to grant audience, but to gain it!—in those plainly furnished and narrow ante-rooms, our bookcase shelves,—we make no account of that company,—perhaps never listen to a word they would say, all day long!

You may tell me, perhaps, or think within yourselves, that the apathy with which we regard this company of the noble, who are praying us to listen to them; and the passion with which we pursue the company, probably of the ignoble, who despise us, or who have nothing to teach us, are grounded in this,—that we can see the faces of the living men, and it is themselves, and not their sayings, with which we desire to become familiar. But it is not so. Suppose you never were to see their faces;—suppose you could be put behind a screen in the statesman’s cabinet, or the prince’s chamber, would you not be glad to listen to their words, though you were forbidden to advance beyond the screen? And when the screen is only a little less, folded in two instead of four, and you can be hidden behind the cover of the two boards that bind a book, and listen all day long, not to the casual talk, but to the studied, determined, chosen addresses of the wisest of men;—this station of audience, and honourable privy council, you despise!

But perhaps you will say that it is because the living people talk of things that are passing, and are of immediate interest to you, that you desire to hear them. Nay; that cannot be so, for the living people will themselves tell you about passing matters much better in their writings than in their careless talk. Yet I admit that this motive does influence you, so far as you prefer those rapid and ephemeral writings to slow and enduring writings—books, properly so called. For all books are divisible into two classes, the books of the hour, and the books of all time. Mark this distinction—it is not one of quality only. It is not merely the bad book that does not last, and the good one that does. It is a distinction of species. There are good books for the hour, and good ones for all time; bad books for the hour, and bad ones for all time. I must define the two kinds before I go farther.

The good book of the hour, then,—I do not speak of the bad ones,—is simply the useful or pleasant talk of some person whom you cannot otherwise converse with, printed for you. Very useful often, telling you what you need to know; very pleasant often, as a sensible friend’s present talk would be. These bright accounts of travels; good-humoured and witty discussions of question; lively or pathetic story-telling in the form of novel; firm fact-telling, by the real agents concerned in the events of passing history;—all these books of the hour, multiplying among us as education becomes more general, are a peculiar possession of the present age: we ought to be entirely thankful for them, and entirely ashamed of ourselves if we make no good use of them. But we make the worst possible use if we allow them to usurp the place of true books: for, strictly speaking, they are not books at all, but merely letters or newspapers in good print. Our friend’s letter may be delightful, or necessary, to-day: whether worth keeping or not, is to be considered. The newspaper may be entirely proper at breakfast time, but assuredly it is not reading for all day. So, though bound up in a volume, the long letter which gives you so pleasant an account of the inns, and roads, and weather, last year at such a place, or which tells you that amusing story, or gives you the real circumstances of such and such events, however valuable for occasional reference, may not be, in the real sense of the word, a “book” at all, nor, in the real sense, to be “read.” A book is essentially not a talking thing, but a written thing; and written, not with a view of mere communication, but of permanence. The book of talk is printed only because its author cannot speak to thousands of people at once; if he could, he would—the volume is mere *multiplication* of his voice. You cannot talk to your friend in India; if you could, you would; you write instead: that is mere *conveyance* of voice. But a book is written, not to multiply the voice merely, not to carry it merely, but to perpetuate it. The author has something to say which he perceives to be true and useful, or helpfully beautiful. So far as he knows, no one has yet said it; so far as he knows, no one else can say it. He is bound to say it, clearly and melodiously if he may; clearly at all events. In the sum of his life he finds this to be the thing, or group of things, manifest to him;—this, the piece of true knowledge, or sight, which his share of sunshine and earth has permitted him to seize. He would fain set it down for ever; engrave it on rock, if he could; saying, “This is the best of me; for the rest, I ate, and drank, and slept, loved, and hated, like another; my life was as the vapour, and is not; but this I saw and knew: this, if anything of mine, is worth your memory.” That is his “writing;” it is, in his small human way, and with whatever degree of true inspiration is in him, his inscription, or scripture. That is a “Book.”

Perhaps you think no books were ever so written?

But, again, I ask you, do you at all believe in honesty, or at all in kindness, or do you think there is never any honesty or benevolence in wise people? None of us, I hope, are so unhappy as to think that. Well, whatever bit of a wise man’s work is honestly and benevolently done, that bit is his book or his piece of art. It is mixed always with evil fragments—ill-done, redundant, affected work. But if you read rightly, you will easily discover the true bits, and those *are* the book.

Now books of this kind have been written in all ages by their greatest men:—by great readers, great statesmen, and great thinkers. These are all at your choice; and Life is short. You have heard as much before;—yet have you measured and mapped out this short life and its possibilities? Do you know, if you read this, that you cannot read that—that what you lose to-day you cannot gain to-morrow? Will you go and gossip with your housemaid, or your stable-boy, when you may talk with queens and kings; or flatter yourself that it is with any worthy consciousness of your own claims to respect, that you jostle with the hungry and common crowd for *entree* here, and audience there, when all the while this eternal court is open to you, with its society, wide as the world, multitudinous as its days, the chosen, and the mighty, of every place and time? Into that you may enter always; in that you may take fellowship and rank according to your wish; from that, once entered into it, you can never be outcast but by your own fault; by your aristocracy of companionship there, your own inherent aristocracy will be assuredly tested, and the motives with which you strive to take high place in the society of the living, measured, as to all the truth and sincerity that are in them, by the place you desire to take in this company of the Dead.

“The place you desire,” and the place you *fit yourself for*, I must also say; because, observe, this court of the past differs from all living aristocracy in this:—it is open to labour and to merit, but to nothing else. No wealth will bribe, no name overawe, no artifice deceive, the guardian of those Elysian gates. In the deep sense, no vile or vulgar person ever enters there. At the portières of that silent Faubourg St. Germain, there is but brief question:—“Do you deserve to enter? Pass. Do you ask to be the companion of nobles? Make yourself noble, and you shall be. Do you long for the conversation of the wise? Learn to understand it, and you shall hear it. But on other terms?—no. If you will not rise to us, we cannot stoop to you. The living lord may assume courtesy, the living philosopher explain his thought to you with considerate pain; but here we neither feign nor interpret; you must rise to the level of our thoughts if you would be gladdened by them, and share our feelings, if you would recognise our presence.”

This, then, is what you have to do, and I admit that it is much. You must, in a word, love these people, if you are to be among them. No ambition is of any use. They scorn your ambition. You must love them, and show your love in these two following ways.

(1) First, by a true desire to be taught by them, and to enter into their thoughts. To enter into theirs, observe; not to find your own expressed by them. If the person who wrote the book is not wiser than you, you need not read it; if he be, he will think differently from you in many respects.

(2) Very ready we are to say of a book, “How good this is—that’s exactly what I think!” But the right feeling is, “How strange that is! I never thought of that before, and yet I see it is true; or if I do not now, I hope I shall, some day.” But whether thus submissively or not, at least be sure that you go to the author to get at *his* meaning, not to find yours. Judge it afterwards if you think yourself qualified to do so; but ascertain it first. And be sure, also, if the author is worth anything, that you will not get at his meaning all at once;—nay, that at his whole meaning you will not for a long time arrive in any wise. Not that he does not say what he means, and in strong words too; but he cannot say it all; and what is more strange, will not, but in a hidden way and in parables, in order that he may be sure you want it. I cannot quite see the reason of this, nor analyse that cruel reticence in the breasts of wise men which makes them always hide their deeper thought. They do not give it you by way of help, but of reward; and will make themselves sure that you deserve it before they allow you to reach it. But it is the same with the physical type of wisdom, gold. There seems, to you and me, no reason why the electric forces of the earth should not carry whatever there is of gold within it at once to the mountain tops, so that kings and people might know that all the gold they could get was there; and without any trouble of digging, or anxiety, or chance, or waste of time, cut it away, and coin as much as they needed. But Nature does not manage it so. She puts it in little fissures in the earth, nobody knows where: you may dig long and find none; you must dig painfully to find any.

And it is just the same with men’s best wisdom. When you come to a good book, you must ask yourself, “Am I inclined to work as an Australian miner would? Are my pickaxes and shovels in good order, and am I in good trim myself, my sleeves well up to the elbow, and my breath good, and my temper?” And, keeping the figure a little longer, even at cost of tiresomeness, for it is a thoroughly useful one, the metal you are in search of being the author’s mind or meaning, his words are as the rock which you have to crush and smelt in order to get at it. And your pickaxes are your own care, wit, and learning; your smelting furnace is your own thoughtful soul. Do not hope to get at any good author’s meaning without those tools and that fire; often you will need sharpest, finest chiselling, and patientest fusing, before you can gather one grain of the metal.

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中文译文 · Claude（AI）译

可是，就算我们既有意愿、也有眼光去好好选择朋友，我们当中又有几个人有这个能力！或者至少，对大多数人来说，可选择的范围是多么有限！我们几乎所有的交往，都由机缘或必需决定，局限在一个狭小的圈子里。我们想认识的人，认识不了；我们认识的人，在最需要的时候又不能留在身边。人类智识的一切高层圈子，对下面的人只是偶尔、部分地敞开。运气好的话，我们也许能看一眼一位大诗人，听听他的声音；或者向一位科学家提一个问题，得到和颜悦色的回答。我们也许能硬挤进去，同一位内阁大臣谈上十分钟，他的回答大概比沉默还糟，因为是骗人的；或者一生中有那么一两次，抢到机会往一位公主走过的路上抛一束花，或者留住一位女王亲切的一瞥。我们却觊觎这些转瞬即逝的机会，把岁月、激情和力气，都花在追逐这些几乎一无所有的东西上；而与此同时，有一个社会始终向我们敞开，那里的人，不论我们地位高低、做什么营生，都愿意同我们谈多久就谈多久，用他们所能挑选的最好的言辞，谈他们心中最切近的事。而这个社会，正因为它人数众多、又如此温和，能整天在我们周围等候，君王和政治家们耐心地徘徊着，不是为了接见我们，而是为了求得我们的接见！就在那些陈设朴素的狭窄前厅里，也就是我们的书架上，我们却不把这群人放在心上，也许一整天都不听他们说一句话！

你也许会对我说，或者在心里想：我们之所以冷淡地对待这群恳求我们倾听的高贵之人，却热切地追求那些大概并不高贵、看不起我们、或者没有什么可以教我们的人的陪伴，是因为我们能看见活人的面孔，我们想熟悉的是他们本人，而不是他们的话。但事实并非如此。假如你永远看不到他们的面孔；假如你可以被安排在政治家的密室或王子的寝宫里，躲在一道屏风后面，你难道不乐意听他们说话吗，即使不许你越过屏风一步？而当那道屏风只稍稍小一点，不是四折而是两折，你可以藏在装订一本书的两块封板后面，整天倾听的不是随口的闲谈，而是最智慧的人经过推敲、下了决心、精心挑选的言辞；这样的听众席位，这样荣耀的枢密院，你却不屑一顾！

但你也许会说，那是因为活着的人谈的是正在发生的事，是你眼下关心的事，所以你想听他们。不，不可能是这样，因为活着的人自己在他们写下的东西里讲那些时事，会比随口闲谈讲得好得多。不过我承认，这个动机确实在影响你，因为你偏爱那些匆促而短命的文字，胜过缓慢而持久的文字，也就是真正称得上书的东西。因为一切书都可以分为两类：一时之书，与永久之书。请记住这个区分，它不只是品质上的区分。并不只是坏书不能持久、好书能够持久。这是种类上的区分。有一时的好书，也有永久的好书；有一时的坏书，也有永久的坏书。在往下讲之前，我必须给这两类书下个定义。

那么，一时的好书（坏的我就不说了），不过是某个你无法与之交谈的人有用的、或者令人愉快的谈话，印出来给你看。它往往很有用，告诉你需要知道的事；往往很令人愉快，就像一位明理的朋友当面的谈话。那些生动的游记；那些幽默风趣的问题讨论；那些以小说形式讲述的活泼或动人的故事；那些由亲身参与当下历史事件的人所作的确凿叙述：所有这些一时之书，随着教育的普及在我们中间日益增多，是当今时代特有的财产；我们应当对它们满怀感激，如果不好好利用它们，就应当满怀羞愧。但如果我们让它们篡夺了真正的书的位置，那就是对它们最坏的利用：因为严格说来，它们根本不是书，只是印得很好的书信或报纸。朋友的信今天读来也许令人愉快，或者必不可少；值不值得保存，那要另作考虑。报纸在早餐时读完全合适，却肯定不是供人读一整天的。所以，那封长信，即使装订成了一卷，愉快地向你讲述去年某地的客栈、道路和天气，或者给你讲那个有趣的故事，或者告诉你某某事件的真实情形，无论供人偶尔查阅多么有价值，在这个词真正的意义上，也许都算不上一本“书”，在真正的意义上，也不是供人“阅读”的。书在本质上不是说话的东西，而是写下来的东西；而且写下来，不是为了单纯的传达，而是为了长存。谈话之书之所以付印，只是因为作者不能同时对成千上万的人说话；如果他能，他就会说了：那一卷书不过是他声音的*增殖*。你不能同你在印度的朋友谈话；如果能，你就会谈了；你于是写信：那不过是声音的*传送*。但一本书之所以写成，不只是为了增殖声音，也不只是为了传送声音，而是为了使它永存。作者有话要说，他看出这些话是真的、有用的，或者美得能帮助人。据他所知，还没有人说过；据他所知，也没有别人能说。他有责任把它说出来，能说得清楚而优美最好，无论如何要说得清楚。在他一生的总和里，他发现这就是向他显明的那件事，或者那一组事；这就是他那一份阳光与土地容许他把握住的那一点真知或洞见。他很想把它永远记下来；如果能，就刻在岩石上，说：“这是我身上最好的东西；至于其余，我也像别人一样吃过、喝过、睡过、爱过、恨过；我的生命如同水汽，已经不在了；但这个，我看见过，我知道：这个，如果我有什么值得你记住的，就是它。”这就是他的“写作”；以他渺小的人的方式，带着他身上不论多少真正的灵感，这就是他的铭文，或者说他的经文。这就是一本“书”。

也许你认为从来没有书是这样写成的？

可是，我再问你：你到底相不相信诚实，相不相信仁善，还是你认为智慧的人身上从来没有诚实与善意？我希望我们当中没有人不幸到这样想。那么，一个智者的作品中，凡是诚实而善意地完成的那一点，那一点就是他的书，或者他的艺术品。它总是混杂着坏的碎片，做得不好的、累赘的、做作的部分。但如果你读得正确，你会很容易发现那些真的部分，而那些*才是*书。

这样的书，每个时代都有它最伟大的人写过：伟大的读者，伟大的政治家，伟大的思想家。这些都任你挑选；而人生短暂。这话你以前听过；可是你有没有丈量过、规划过这短短的一生和它的种种可能？你知不知道，如果你读了这本，就不能读那本；今天失去的，明天就补不回来？当你可以与女王和国王交谈的时候，你会去和你的女仆或马童闲聊吗？或者，当这座永恒的宫廷一直向你敞开，它的社会像世界一样宽广，像它的日子一样众多，汇集着每一个地方、每一个时代被选中的人与强有力的人，你还会自以为是带着对自己应受尊重的某种体面意识，同饥饿而平庸的人群推挤着，要在这里求得入场、在那里求得接见吗？那座宫廷，你随时可以进去；在那里，你可以按自己的愿望结交、取得地位；一旦进去，除非你自己犯错，你永远不会被赶出来；你在那里的交游的高贵程度，必将检验你自己内在的高贵；你力求在活人社会中占据高位的动机，其中有多少真实与真诚，也将由你希望在这群逝者中间占据的位置来衡量。

我必须说，是“你希望的位置”，也是你*使自己配得上的*位置；因为请注意，这座往昔的宫廷与一切活着的贵族社会不同之处在于：它向劳作与功绩敞开，除此之外，不向任何东西敞开。任何财富都贿赂不了、任何名号都吓不倒、任何诡计都骗不过那极乐之门的守卫。在深刻的意义上，没有一个卑劣或庸俗的人能进到那里。在那安静的圣日耳曼区的门帘前，只有简短的盘问：“你配进来吗？请进。你想做贵人的伙伴吗？让你自己高贵起来，你就会是。你渴望与智者交谈吗？学会理解他们，你就会听到。但用别的条件？不行。如果你不肯升到我们这里，我们也不能俯就你。活着的贵族可以装出礼貌，活着的哲学家可以体贴而费力地向你解释他的思想；但在这里，我们既不伪装，也不解说；你若想因我们的思想而喜悦，就必须升到我们思想的高度；你若想认出我们的存在，就必须分享我们的感情。”

那么，这就是你要做的事，我承认这是很多。一句话，如果你要在这些人中间，你就必须爱他们。任何野心都没有用。他们蔑视你的野心。你必须爱他们，并用以下两种方式表现你的爱。

（1）第一，真心渴望受他们的教导，进入他们的思想。请注意，是进入他们的思想，而不是在他们那里找到你自己思想的表达。如果写这本书的人不比你更智慧，你就不必读它；如果他比你智慧，他在许多方面就会与你想得不同。

（2）我们很容易对一本书说：“这本书多好啊，正是我所想的！”但正确的感受应该是：“这多奇怪啊！我以前从没想到过，可我看出它是真的；或者，即使我现在还看不出，我希望有一天能看出。”但不管是否这样谦恭，至少要确定，你去找作者，是为了得到*他的*意思，而不是为了找到你自己的意思。如果你认为自己有资格，事后再去评判它；但首先要弄清它。还要确定，如果这位作者有什么价值，你不会一下子就得到他的意思；不，他的全部意思，你会很久都无法完全到达。这并不是说他没有说出他的意思，他说了，而且用的是有力的言辞；而是他不能把它全都说出来；更奇怪的是，他不愿意全说出来，而要用隐藏的方式、用寓言来说，好确定你真的想要它。我不太明白其中的道理，也无法分析智者胸中那种残酷的缄默，使他们总是把最深的思想藏起来。他们不是把它当作帮助给你，而是当作奖赏；在让你得到它之前，要先确定你配得上。但智慧在物质上的象征，金子，也是如此。在你我看来，地球的电力似乎没有理由不把它所含的金子一下子都运到山顶上，好让国王和百姓都知道，他们能得到的金子全都在那里；不必费力挖掘，不必焦虑，不必碰运气，也不必浪费时间，就可以把它切下来，要多少铸多少。但大自然不是这样安排的。她把金子放在大地小小的裂缝里，谁也不知道在哪里：你可能挖了很久，什么也没找到；你必须辛苦地挖，才能找到一点。

人最好的智慧也正是这样。当你遇到一本好书，你必须问自己：“我愿不愿意像一个澳大利亚矿工那样干活？我的镐和铲子是不是好使，我自己的状态好不好，袖子是不是卷到了肘上，气息顺不顺，脾气好不好？”再把这个比喻说下去，即使有点让人厌烦，因为它实在非常有用：你所寻找的金属，是作者的心意或意思，他的言辞就像你必须粉碎、熔炼才能得到它的矿石。你的镐，是你自己的细心、才智和学问；你的熔炉，是你自己深思的灵魂。没有这些工具和那团火，就别指望得到任何一位好作者的意思；你常常需要最锐利、最精细的凿刻，和最有耐心的熔炼，才能收集到一粒金属。