BookPleasures.com is honored to welcome William Marx, Professor of Comparative Literatures at the prestigious Collège de France and one of the most distinguished literary thinkers of our time.

Renowned for his penetrating explorations of literature's role in society, William has authored a number of influential works, including The Hatred of Literature and The Tomb of Oedipus. 

His latest book, Libraries of the Mind, is a fascinating and timely meditation on the invisible libraries we carry within us—those mental shelves formed by our memories, readings, and cultural inheritances.

Drawing inspiration from Erich Auerbach, who famously wrote Mimesis in exile with no access to a physical library, William invites us to reconsider how we construct our internal collections of literature.

As he compellingly argues, our minds are themselves libraries—often partial, often biased—and in need of both renovation and expansion.

He urges us to recover the "dark matter" of literature: lost texts, fragmented works, suppressed voices, and even books that were never written but should have been. In this erudite yet accessible work, William challenges readers to build a more inclusive and imaginative "mental world library."

In today's conversation, we'll speak with Professor Marx about the philosophical and personal dimensions of reading, the shifting boundaries of the literary canon, and how we might all become better readers—not just of books, but of culture itself.

Good day William and thanks for taking part in our interview for bookpleasures.com

Norm: What exactly do you mean by Our Minds as Libraries? Do you think most people are aware of their own inner library, or does it work more subconsciously?

William: First, I want to thank you for the opportunity to elaborate on ideas that are dear to me.

When I say that our minds are libraries, I mean that we are filled—mostly without realizing it—with the books we've read throughout our lives, but also with those we've only heard about, or know only through hearsay, brief summaries, or even just by their titles.

We are full of these very incomplete libraries, and every book we read is unconsciously placed on one of these mental shelves. Without knowing it, we compare a new novel we discover with others we already know, and those familiar books help us make sense of the new one.

This wouldn't be a problem if it weren't also true that the works already present in our mental library can sometimes prevent us from fully understanding or appreciating new ones.

In a way, we are already guided—or even biased—by what we know. It's therefore better to become aware of this orientation, these limitations, rather than letting ourselves be unconsciously led. Becoming aware of the existence of these mental libraries is the essential first step.

Norm: What does Erich Auerbach's story teach us? Do you think a similar book could be written today from memory alone, in our digital age?

William: Erich Auerbach wrote one of the greatest works of literary criticism, Mimesis, while in exile in Istanbul, without access to a library. He relied entirely on his personal memory, on the recollection of his readings.

And yet, two thousand years from now, that single book could still give an archaeologist a reasonably accurate idea of what Western literature was. In truth, the fate of all literature, all libraries, is to become mental constructs, memories.

The essence of a literary work is to be absorbed through a mental act we call reading. Are there still great scholars today, in the digital age? They are becoming increasingly rare.

They should be a protected species. Young people are reading less and less. Still, I know some who are madly in love with literature—even with ancient literature.

Perhaps, in case of catastrophe (which sadly becomes more likely), they will be the Erich Auerbachs of the future.

Norm: Why should we care about books that are lost or never written? Is there a historical example of a "lost" work you wish we still had?

William: Becoming aware of our mental libraries means not only recognizing the books they contain, but also those they don't. There are many reasons why a work might go unread or be forgotten.

One of the most obvious is that the text has been lost.

I think of the hundreds of tragedies once written and performed in ancient Athens, of which only thirty-two remain—and by just three authors. Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides also wrote satyr plays—hilarious, absurd works—of which we have only a single nearly intact example.

I would love to read more of them, just as I would love to read the complete works of Heraclitus, of which only a few fragments remain! Sophocles wrote a treatise on the tragic chorus, which would be incredibly valuable to us today for understanding ancient theater.

Aristotle's dialogues were, by some accounts, more beautiful than Plato's—yet they are all lost!

Then there are imagined works that were never written or never finished: Aristotle's mythical second book of the Poetics, which so fascinates the characters in Eco's The Name of the Rose, or the endings of Lucretius's De rerum natura or Virgil's Aeneid.

Norm: What kind of mindset should we have today? What's one common misconception readers have about literature that you think holds them back?

William: Today, the dominant belief is that literature exists to make us feel good, to offer a "safe space" that helps us cope with reality. Philosopher Ralph Waldo Emerson marveled at finding in great works a spark of the universal "Divine Soul."

It's a lovely idea—but one that has done, and continues to do, much harm to literature. By that logic, anything lacking immediate benefit or anything that might shock the reader is rejected. It becomes a justification for censorship.

I believe, on the contrary, that literature's path is far more complex. Literature need not be better than the world we live in—it should reflect it in all its diversity. It should not conform to our expectations.

We must learn to embrace the otherness of works that carry different values from our own. The goodness we seek in literature must be forged by our own reflection—not served to us as something already digested.

Pope Francis, in his recent letter on literature, said the same thing: literary works exist to awaken our own responsibility as readers and interpreters.

Norm: How can readers build their inner libraries? Are there any simple reading habits or strategies you'd recommend for someone who wants to become a more reflective reader?

William: First, we must be willing to be shocked or unsettled by works. We shouldn't expect the authors we read to think like us. Why do we accept a plurality of opinions in a democracy, but not in literature?

Ancient and distant cultures also have a voice in the conversation of humanity. Ignoring humanity's diversity is absurd. We shouldn't assume we're better than the past. On some points, perhaps we are—especially regarding respect for differences.

But no literary, poetic, or narrative text can be reduced to a single opinion (racism, misogyny, homophobia, etc.) that would be enough to disqualify it entirely.

Texts carry a multitude of meanings—diverse and sometimes contradictory—that deserve exploration.

Historical knowledge, prefaces, and footnotes help us recontextualize texts within their cultural framework. Ideas have histories, and ignoring that leads to dangerous anachronisms.

Expecting 17th-century writers to be free of all their era's biases is like accusing a 19th-century doctor of not using antibiotics! The worst mistake would be thinking we're more intelligent than the past.

That illusion would expose us, inevitably, to being censored or erased by our own descendants, whose moral sensitivity will surely differ from ours.

Norm: How do we start exploring forgotten voices? Are there publishers, anthologies, or even online resources you'd recommend to readers curious about overlooked literature?

William: Read, read, and read without limits. Follow your curiosity and your impulses. Education, textbooks, anthologies—they're essential, of course.

But they inevitably reflect the interests of our present time. "All history is contemporary history," said philosopher Benedetto Croce—meaning it's written for the historian's contemporaries. Selections are useful, but they are still only selections.

The best approach is to wander through the shelves of major libraries and browse the books no one ever requests. Personally, I love rummaging through second-hand bookshops and antiquarian bookstores to discover forgotten works.

The booksellers along the Seine in Paris are paradise for someone like me, a lover of lost literature. There you'll find wonderful texts neglected by literary history. No one should dictate our taste.

What our grandparents loved—but our parents disliked—might delight us again. What was discarded in one era could be revered a hundred years later.

Norm: What authors deserve more attention? Is there a work you've championed personally that people often overlook?

William: Today, writers from historically marginalized groups—women, racialized communities—are being rediscovered, and rightly so. There are so many treasures to reclaim. Why deprive ourselves of them? I also encourage reading in translation.

Translated works have passed through so many filters and barriers before reaching publication that they're often better and more interesting than much of what's published directly in English (I'm addressing English-speaking readers here).

This is especially true for translations from so-called rare languages—Hungarian, Czech, certain African or Asian tongues—which face more obstacles before reaching bookstores. If these works made it through, it's usually because their quality is exceptional.

Norm: What's it like working with unfinished writings? Do you feel a responsibility to preserve the writer's intentions, or is there room for interpretation?

William: As a scholarly editor, I will never attempt to finish a work that its author abandoned. That would violate all editorial principles. In some cases, based on existing sources, we can speculate about how a work might have ended.

But if an author stops working on something—not because of illness or death, but due to insurmountable obstacles—no one after them can truly resolve those issues. Again, I repeat: we should not think ourselves more intelligent than the author.

Of course, for commercial reasons, some may want to complete and publish such works. But beware of inconsistencies! Composer Franco Alfano completed Puccini's magnificent Turandot, which was meant to culminate in a sublime final scene—a love duet as moving as Wagner's Liebestod. Alas, Alfano delivered bombastic, vulgar music that, to my ears, somewhat spoils the masterpiece.

Norm: Why rethink the literary canon? Have you seen a meaningful example where expanding the canon has changed how people view a culture or era?

William: Literary canons are mental libraries at a collective level—not just individual, but social, national, cultural. There are various canons depending on use—school, university, commercial, etc. These canons spotlight some works at the expense of others.

They help build a shared cultural memory within a nation, and I believe that's important: they allow continuity between generations. Shakespeare in the English-speaking world or La Fontaine in France provide constant points of reference and shared quotations across ages—a foundation for social communication.

But these seemingly stable canons are always evolving. It's crucial to open them up to newly discovered or re-evaluated works. Still, better to enlarge or diversify canons than to exclude works deliberately. Let forgetting happen naturally.

Never force it. All censorship, all intentional erasure must be rejected. Human memory is limited, so canons will always be necessary. They offer a compact—though partial and biased—vision of a period or culture.

Today, we're rediscovering the immense presence of women in 19th-century French musical life, despite later erasure. I've been especially struck by the piano compositions of Hélène de Montgeroult—very popular in her time—whose singular beauty influenced Schubert and Chopin, for example.

Norm: How do you inspire students to read deeply? Can you recall a moment when a student's perspective surprised you or changed how you saw a text?

William: The key is always to create surprise—to show that texts are more complex than we thought. I remember teaching Japanese Noh theater. For several sessions, I explained in detail how this theater works. We read these magnificent texts together.

Then, toward the end, I would show a video recording of an actual Noh performance. And without fail, even though students knew all the theory, the experience stunned them. It was so different from anything they'd seen that they felt like they were watching extraterrestrials perform!

And that surprise reawakened in me my own initial astonishment. Such experiences are invaluable. They provide a kind of cognitive shift that helps students better embrace all kinds of difference later in life.

Norm: Where can our readers find out more about you and Libraries of the Mind?

William: They can start by reading the book, of course! But they can also visit the website of my institution, the Collège de France, where they'll find a very comprehensive personal page—including an English Version

There they'll find many resources, including all my courses and lectures, available in audio and video formats, also on YouTube. YouTube can even automatically translate my lectures into English—the translations are far from perfect, but sufficient, I believe, to follow along.

Norm: As our interview comes to an end, what's the one idea you hope readers remember? If someone finishes your book and only changes one habit or thought pattern—what would you want that to be?

William: Long, sustained reading is in grave danger today, threatened by the endless distractions of screens that surround us. And yet reading demands a special kind of effort—an effort that is amply rewarded later. But that initial effort is crucial.

If I could make just one recommendation, it would be this: discipline yourself to turn off all screens for at least half an hour each day, and read a book during that time. And if you have children, lead by example—show them the joy that reading brings.

Why read? Because perhaps what we haven't read—what lies outside our mental library—is even more important than what we have.

There is always a treasure out there waiting to be discovered, sitting on a shelf we've long ignored. What joy and hope to think the best is yet to be found! That's a powerful reason to keep reading—and even to keep living.

Norm: Thanks once again and good luck with all of your future endeavors