From Elias Canetti’s The Agony of Flies, a collection of insights, imaginings, and observations compiled from his shorter works by the author himself. I struggle with a fitting description since the form is aphoristic but I think Canetti would run from the claim to broad accuracy and applicability that aphorism typically implies.
Reading seeks to propagate itself in me by reading; I never follow any outside recommendations, or if I do, then only after a very long time. I want to discover what I read. Whoever suggests a book to me knocks it out of my hands; whoever praises it spoils it for me for years. I only trust the minds I truly revere. They can recommend anything to me, and to awaken my curiosity all they have to do is to mention something in a given book. But whatever others recommend with their facile tongues is as if truly cursed. Thus it was hard for me to get to know the great books, for the greatest works long ago have entered the idolatry of the commonplace. People have the names of those books – as well as their heroes – on the tips of their tongues, and since they are so intent on stuffing themselves, they pronounce these names with their mouths full, thereby spoiling my own appetite for what would be so important for me to know.
Extracts 