The Author's Apology for His Book

WHEN at the first I took my pen in hand Thus for to write, I did not understand That I at all should make a little book In such a mode: in fact, I had undertook To make another; which, when almost done, Before I was aware I this begun.

And thus it was: I, writing of the way And race of saints in this our gospel-day, Fell suddenly into an allegory About their journey, and the way to glory, In more than twenty things which I set down This done, I twenty more had in my crown, And they again began to multiply, Like sparks that from the coals of fire do fly. In fact, then, thought I, if that you breed so fast, I’ll put you by yourselves, lest you at last Should prove *ad infinitum*, and eat out The book that I already am about. Well, so I did; but yet I did not think To show to all the world my pen and ink In such a mode; I only thought to make I knew not what: nor did I undertake Thereby to please my neighbor; no, not I; I did it my own self to gratify.

Neither did I but vacant seasons spend In this my scribble; nor did I intend But to divert myself, in doing this, From worser thoughts, which make me do amiss. Thus I set pen to paper with delight, And quickly had my thoughts in black and white; For having now my method by the end, Still as I pull’d, it came; and so I penned It down; until it came at last to be, For length and breadth, the bigness which you see.

Well, when I had thus put my ends together I show’d them others, that I might see whether They would condemn them, or them justify: And some said, let them live; some, let them die: Some said, John, print it; others said, Not so: Some said, It might do good; others said, No.

Now was I in a strait, and did not see Which was the best thing to be done by me: At last I thought, Since you are thus divided, I print it will; and so the case decided.

For, thought I, some I see would have it done, Though others in that channel do not run: To prove, then, who advised for the best, Thus I thought fit to put it to the test.

I further thought, if now I did deny Those that would have it, thus to gratify; I did not know, but hinder them I might Of that which would to them be great delight. For those which were not for its coming forth, I said to them, Offend you, I am loath; Yet since your brethren pleased with it be, Forbear to judge, till you do further see.

If that you will not read, let it alone; some love the meat, some love to pick the bone. Indeed, that I might them better palliate, I did too with them thus expostulate:

May I not write in such a style as this? In such a method too, and yet not miss My end-your good? Why may it not be done? Dark clouds bring waters, when the bright bring none. Indeed, dark or bright, if they their silver drops Cause to descend, the earth, by yielding crops, Gives praise to both, and carps not at either, But treasures up the fruit they yield together; Indeed, so commingles both, that in their fruit None can distinguish this from that; they suit Her well when hungry; but if she be full, She spews out both, and makes their blessing null.

You see the ways the fisherman does take To catch the fish; what engines does he make! Behold how he engageth all his wits; Also his snares, lines, angles, hooks, and nets: Yet fish there be, that neither hook nor line, Nor snare, nor net, nor engine can make your: They must be groped for, and be tickled too, Or they will not be catch’d, whate’er you do.

How does the fowler seek to catch his game By diverse means! all which one cannot name. His guns, his nets, his lime-twigs, light and bell: He creeps, he goes, he stands; indeed, who can tell Of all his postures? yet there’s none of these Will make him master of what fowls he please. Indeed, he must pipe and whistle, to catch *this*; Yet if he does so, *that* bird he will miss. If that a pearl may in toad’s head dwell, And may be found too in an oyster-shell; If things that promise nothing, do contain What better is than gold; who will disdain, That have an inkling of it, there to look, That they may find it. Now my little book, (Though void of all these paintings that may make It with this or the other man to take,) Is not without those things that do excel What do in brave but empty notions dwell.

“Well, yet I am not fully satisfied That this your book will stand, when soundly tried.

Why, what’s the matter? “It is dark. ” What though? “But it is feigned. ” What of that? I believe Some men by feigned words, as dark as mine, Make truth to spangle, and its rays to shine. “But they want solidness. ” Speak, man, your mind. “They drown the weak; metaphors make us blind.

Solidity, indeed, becomes the pen Of him that writes things divine to men: But must I needs want solidness, because By metaphors I speak? Were not God’s laws, His gospel laws, in olden time held forth By types, shadows, and metaphors? Yet loth Will any sober man be to find fault With them, lest he be found for to assault The highest wisdom! No, he rather stoops, And seeks to find out what, by pins and loops, By calves and sheep, by heifers, and by rams, By birds and herbs, and by the blood of lambs, God speaks to him; and happy is he That finds the light and grace that in them be.

But not too forward, therefore, to conclude That I want solidness—that I am rude; All things solid in show, not solid be; All things in parable despise not we, Lest things most hurtful lightly we receive, And things that good are, of our souls bereave. My dark and cloudy words they do but hold The truth, as cabinets enclose the gold.

The prophets used much by metaphors To set forth truth: indeed, who so considers Christ, his apostles too, shall plainly see, That truths to this day in such mantles be.

Am I afraid to say, that holy writ, Which for its style and phrase puts down all wit, Is everywhere so full of all these things, Dark figures, allegories? Yet there springs From that same book, that luster, and those rays Of light, that turn our darkest nights to days.

Come, let my carper to his life now look, And find there darker lines than in my book He finds any; indeed, and let him know, That in his best things there are worse lines too.

May we but stand before impartial men, To his poor one I durst adventure ten, That they will take my meaning in these lines Far better than his lies in silver shrines. Come, truth, although in swaddling-clothes, I find Informs the judgment, rectifies the mind; Pleases the understanding, makes the will Submit, the memory too it does fill With what does our imagination please; Likewise it tends our troubles to appease.

Sound words, I know, Timothy is to use, And old wives’ fables he is to refuse; But yet grave Paul him nowhere does forbid The use of parables, in which lay hid That gold, those pearls, and precious stones that were Worth digging for, and that with greatest care.

Let me add one word more. O man of God, Are you offended? Do you wish I had Put forth my matter in another dress? Or that I had in things been more express? Three things let me propound; then I submit To those that are my betters, as is fit.

1. I find not that I am denied the use Of this my method, so I no abuse Put on the words, things, readers, or be rude In handling figure or similitude, In application; but all that I may Seek the advance of truth this or that way. Denied, did I say? In fact, I have leave, (Example too, and that from them that have God better pleased, by their words or ways, Than any man that breatheth nowadays,) Thus to express my mind, thus to declare Things to you that excellentest are.

2. I find that men as high as trees will write Dialogue-wise; yet no man does them slight For writing so. Indeed, if they abuse Truth, cursed be they, and the craft they use To that intent; but yet let truth be free To make her sallies upon you and me, Which way it pleases God: for who knows how, Better than he that taught us first to plough, To guide our minds and pens for his designs? And he makes base things usher in divine.

3. I find that holy writ, in many places, Has semblance with this method, where the cases Do call for one thing to set forth another: Use it I may then, and yet nothing smother Truth’s golden beams: in fact, by this method may Make it cast forth its rays as light as day.

And now, before I do put up my pen, I’ll show the profit of my book; and then Commit both you and it to that hand That pulls the strong down, and makes weak ones stand.

This book it chalks out before your eyes The man that seeks the everlasting prize: It shows you from where he comes, where he goes, What he leaves undone; also what he does: It also shows you how he runs, and runs, Till he to the gate of glory comes. It shows, too, who set out for life amain, As if the lasting crown they would obtain; Here also you may see the reason why They lose their labor, and like fools do die.

This book will make a traveler of you, If by its counsel you will ruled be; It will direct you to the Holy Land, If you will its directions understand Indeed, it will make the slothful active be; The blind also delightful things to see.

Are you for something rare and profitable? Or would you see a truth within a fable? Are you forgetful? Would you remember From New-Year’s day to the last of December? Then read my fancies; they will stick like burs, And may be, to the helpless, comforters.

This book is writ in such a dialect As may the minds of listless men affect: It seems a novelty, and yet contains Nothing but sound and honest gospel strains.

Would you divert yourself from melancholy? Would you be pleasant, yet be far from folly? Would you read riddles, and their explanation? Or else be drowned in your contemplation? Do you love picking meat? Or would you see A man i’ the clouds, and hear him speak to you? Would you be in a dream, and yet not sleep? Or would you in a moment laugh and weep? Would you lose yourself and catch no harm, And find yourself again without a charm? Would read yourself, and read you know’st not what, And yet know whether you are blest or not, By reading the same lines? O then come here, And lay my book, your head, and heart together.

John Bunyan.

When I first took my pen in hand to write, I didn't understand that I would make a little book in this way. In fact, I had set out to write another work, and when it was almost done, before I even realized it, I had begun this one.

This is how it happened: I was writing about the journey and race of the saints in this gospel age, and I suddenly fell into an allegory about their journey and the way to glory — more than twenty things that I set down. Once those were done, I had twenty more in my head, and they began to multiply like sparks flying from burning coals. At that point I thought, if you're going to breed so fast, I'll set you aside by yourselves, or else you'll go on forever and crowd out the book I'm already working on. So I did just that. But even then, I didn't think I would show the world my pen and ink in this form. I only thought I was making something — I wasn't sure what. I wasn't trying to please anyone else. I did it to satisfy myself.

I only spent my spare time on this writing. I didn't intend it for anything other than a diversion — a way to push away darker thoughts that might lead me astray. So I put pen to paper with pleasure, and my thoughts quickly took shape in black and white. Once I had found my method, I kept pulling on it and it kept coming, until at last it grew to the length and breadth you see before you.

When I had put my pages together, I showed them to others to see what they would think — whether they would condemn them or approve them. Some said, let them live; others said, let them die. Some said, John, print it; others said, No. Some thought it might do good; others said it would not.

I was at a loss and couldn't decide what to do. At last I thought: since you are so divided, I will print it — and so the matter was settled.

For I could see that some people wanted it published, even if others did not agree. To settle who gave the better advice, I decided to put it to the test.

I also thought that if I refused those who wanted it, I might rob them of something that would bring them great delight. To those who were against its publication, I said: I am sorry to offend you. But since your brothers and sisters are pleased with it, hold off your judgment until you have seen more.

If you won't read it, leave it alone. Some love the meat; some love to pick the bone. Still, hoping to satisfy them better, I reasoned with them like this:

May I not write in a style like this? And in this method too — and still reach my goal, which is your good? Why can't it be done? Dark clouds bring rain when bright clouds bring none. Whether dark or bright, if clouds bring their silver drops and cause the earth to yield its crops, the earth gives praise to both and finds no fault with either. It treasures up the fruit they bring together — in fact, the two are so mixed that in the harvest no one can tell which drop came from which cloud. The earth welcomes both when it is dry, but when it is full, it spews out both and makes their blessing worthless.

Look at how the fisherman works to catch fish — what tools and methods he uses! See how he puts all his wits to work, along with his snares, lines, rods, hooks, and nets. And yet there are fish that no hook, no line, no snare, no net, no device can catch. They must be felt for and tickled, or they will not be caught no matter what you do.

How does the bird-hunter try to catch his game by various means — too many to name. His guns, his nets, his lime-twigs, his light and bell. He creeps, he walks, he stands still — who can describe all his methods? Yet none of these will make him master of whatever birds he wants. Indeed, he must pipe and whistle to catch one bird, yet if he does so, he will miss another. If a pearl can dwell in a toad's head, and also be found in an oyster shell — if things that look like nothing contain what is better than gold — who, if they have any sense of it, would refuse to look there to find it? Now my little book, though it lacks the fine decoration that might appeal to this or that reader, is not without things that surpass what lives only in impressive but empty ideas.

"Well, I am still not fully satisfied that your book will hold up when truly tested."

Why, what's the matter? "It is dark." What of that? "But it is fiction." What of that? I believe some men, using fictional words as dark as mine, can make truth sparkle and shine. "But they lack substance." Speak your mind plainly. "They overwhelm the weak; metaphors blind us."

Substance is certainly fitting for the pen of one who writes divine things for people. But must I lack substance simply because I speak in metaphors? Were not God's laws — His gospel laws — in earlier times set forth through types, shadows, and metaphors? Yet no sensible person would want to find fault with those, for fear of being found to attack the highest wisdom! No, instead he bows down and seeks to understand what God is saying to him through pins and loops, through calves and sheep, through heifers and rams, through birds and herbs, and through the blood of lambs. And blessed is the one who finds the light and grace contained in them.

But do not be too quick to conclude that I lack substance — or that I am crude. Not everything that looks solid is solid. Do not despise everything written in parable form, or you may too easily receive what is harmful and miss what is good. My dark and cloudy words only hold the truth the way a cabinet holds gold.

The prophets often used metaphors to set forth truth. Indeed, anyone who considers Christ and His apostles will plainly see that truths to this day are wrapped in such coverings.

Am I afraid to say that the Holy Scriptures — which in style and expression surpass all human wisdom — are everywhere full of these things: dark figures and allegories? Yet from that same book springs the light and rays that turn our darkest nights into days.

Come, let my critic look at his own life and see if he doesn't find darker lines there than in my book. Yes, let him recognize that even in his best work there are worse lines too.

If we could stand before impartial judges, I would wager ten to his one that they would understand my meaning in these lines far better than his lies wrapped up in silver shrines. Come, truth — even in swaddling clothes — informs the mind, sets thinking straight, and pleases the understanding. It makes the will submit. It fills the memory with what feeds the imagination and tends to quiet our troubles.

I know Timothy is to use sound words and refuse old wives' fables. But the apostle Paul nowhere forbids him the use of parables, in which lay hidden that gold, those pearls, and precious stones that are worth digging for — and with the greatest care.

Let me add one more word. O man of God, are you offended? Do you wish I had presented my material in a different form? Or that I had been more straightforward in some things? Let me offer three points; then I will submit to those who are wiser than me, as is right.

1. I find that I am not forbidden from using this method, as long as I don't abuse the words, the subject matter, the readers, or handle figures and similitudes carelessly — so long as all I do aims at advancing truth in one way or another. Forbidden, did I say? In fact, I have permission — and examples to follow from those who have pleased God better by their words or ways than anyone alive today — to express my thoughts this way and declare these most excellent things to you.

2. I find that men as distinguished as trees will write in dialogue form, and no one looks down on them for it. Indeed, if they abuse truth, then curse them and the craft they use for that purpose. But let truth be free to make its way to you and me however God pleases. For who knows better than the One who first taught us to plow how to guide our minds and pens toward His purposes? And He uses ordinary things to bring in what is divine.

3. I find that Holy Scripture, in many places, resembles this method — where situations call for one thing to set forth another. So I may use it too, and in doing so I will not smother truth's golden beams. In fact, by this method I may cause them to shine as bright as day.

And now, before I put down my pen, I will show you the profit of my book — and then commit both you and it to that hand which pulls the strong down and makes the weak stand firm.

This book lays out clearly before your eyes the man who seeks the everlasting prize. It shows you where he comes from and where he is going, what he leaves undone and what he does. It shows you how he runs and keeps running until he reaches the gate of glory. It also shows you who set out for life with great energy, as if they intended to win the lasting crown. Here you can also see the reason they lose their effort and die like fools.

This book will make a traveler of you, if you are willing to be guided by its counsel. It will direct you to the Holy Land if you will take its directions to heart. Indeed, it will make the lazy become active, and open the eyes of the blind to see wonderful things.

Are you looking for something rare and worthwhile? Or would you like to see truth within a story? Are you forgetful? Would you like to remember, from New Year's Day to the last of December? Then read my imaginings — they will stick like burrs, and may be a comfort to those who are helpless.

This book is written in a language that can reach the minds of distracted people. It seems like something new, and yet it contains nothing but sound and honest gospel truth.

Would you like to escape melancholy? Would you be cheerful, yet stay far from foolishness? Would you like to read riddles and their explanations? Or perhaps be lost in deep thought? Do you enjoy a good puzzle? Or would you see a man in the clouds and hear him speak to you? Would you like to be in a dream and yet not be asleep? Or would you in a moment both laugh and weep? Would you lose yourself and come to no harm, then find yourself again without any magic trick? Would you read about yourself — read something you can't quite name — and yet know whether you are blessed or not, by reading the very same lines? If so, come here, and lay my book, your head, and your heart together.

John Bunyan.