It is well to read everything of something, and something of

“It is well to read everything of something, and something of everything.” Thus spoke Joseph Brodsky, the exiled poet, the Nobel laureate, the man who was banished from his homeland yet carried with him the treasure of words. In this saying he gives us a law for the life of the mind, a balance between depth and breadth, between mastery of one field and the wide embrace of all knowledge. His wisdom is not only for scholars and poets, but for all who would live fully, for he reminds us that the mind is nourished both by roots that dig deep and branches that spread wide.

The meaning of this quote lies in the harmony of opposites. To read “everything of something” is to pursue mastery, to dedicate oneself to a field until it yields its secrets. It is the mathematician studying every theorem, the historian reading every record, the musician mastering every note of an art. Without depth, knowledge is shallow, and the learner drifts on the surface like a ship without an anchor. Yet Brodsky warns that depth alone is not enough. One must also read “something of everything”—to taste from every discipline, to learn a little of philosophy, of science, of history, of art. For without breadth, knowledge becomes narrow and rigid, unable to connect with the wider truths of life.

The ancients knew this balance well. Aristotle studied all things, from logic and ethics to biology and politics, and because he sought both the specific and the universal, his works endured for centuries. The Renaissance also bore witness to this wisdom, with men like Leonardo da Vinci, who mastered the detail of anatomy and the sweep of painting, who read deeply of one thing and broadly of all. Brodsky’s words carry the same spirit: knowledge is richest when it is both focused and expansive, precise and universal.

History gives us examples of those who failed in this balance. Consider the medieval scholastics, many of whom knew theology in all its depth but closed themselves to the discoveries of science. Their knowledge became stagnant because they lacked breadth. On the other hand, there are those who scatter their minds too widely, learning a little of everything but never enough to understand anything fully—like the dilettantes of aristocratic courts, who sparkled with trivia but built nothing lasting. Brodsky’s rule is the antidote: depth enough to master, breadth enough to connect.

The wisdom of this saying is also personal, for Brodsky himself lived as an exile in foreign lands. Torn from Russia, he had to rebuild his life in English, immersing himself deeply in literature, yet he also read widely across cultures to understand the universality of the human spirit. His own survival as a poet depended on this principle: mastering some, but tasting from all. His words come not as abstract philosophy, but as lived truth.

The lesson for us is practical and timeless. Choose something in life to study deeply, to know so well that it shapes your character and gives you mastery. Yet never close yourself to the wider world. Read a little of history, that you may know where you stand in time. Read a little of science, that you may marvel at creation. Read a little of poetry, that your soul may be nourished. In this way, you will grow both strong and supple, rooted and expansive, wise and humane.

So let Brodsky’s words echo as a guide for the ages: “Read everything of something, and something of everything.” Do not be content with shallowness, nor trapped in narrowness. Strive for balance, for in balance lies wisdom. Read deeply to build strength, read widely to build vision, and let the two together shape you into one who sees clearly, understands profoundly, and lives richly. For in this balance, the soul finds both its anchor and its wings.