On Reading
Why Do We Read?
There are many reasons why people read: some read for entertainment, some to satisfy their curiosity, some to collect facts, others to educate themselves, others because it has been obliged of them, and some because in our times, reading is becoming fashionable again. The often left out reason for reading, which I judge supreme because it is the only benefit of reading that can scarcely be gotten from any other activity is: to train the mind beyond the limits of experience to pass well-considered judgement. Experience grants us a reasonable education. Every now and then, upon reflection, we can convert an experience into a lesson that becomes a rudder for our judgement. But experience is disorderly, and in not occurring to all men, discriminatory in the lessons she can teach us. One who desires to be pass sound and well-considered judgement must therefore seek to enrich their faculties beyond what their experiences can accord them. Through reading, we can achieve this in a manner that is orderly and catalogued. A third limitation of experience that necessitates us to travel beyond her boundaries is that it seldom brings to bear all the complex considerations that are necessary to pass good judgement, and that it comes to us as moments, as opposed to cross-sectional views of time that allows us to appreciate change. Throughout history, no medium has proven itself better suited for this task than books. The understanding of how the conduct of war, for example, has changed over time from an arbitrary time such as of the Persians to the modern times is to be found in books to those who will read.
It is important to clearly state the intention for wanting to read, for in stating it, one allows themselves to judge if reading may be the best means to their end. Say, for example, that one wants to improve their ability to communicate: while many are of the opinion that reading can be helpful in this regard, who upon realising that we do not speak in the manner that books are written, and that it is almost impossible to judge the pronunciation and effect of words on prospective interlocutors merely by seeing them, does not suddenly question the efficacy of reading to improve our communication? Perhaps one may be better off listening to the best speakers they can find. Say again, that one seeks to embark on a journey of self-development: while reading will no doubt make certain truths more clear to such a person, it is action, not the possession of such knowledge that improves one’s life. Perhaps one may be better off finding a master and emulating their lifestyle, or executing to the letter of the word their recommendations. However, man is not such a calculating machine, and some who read have not come to the realization (either as a result of inability or a lack of curiosity) of the fact that the ends they seek are better to be achieved by other means. And so it is nonetheless of practical importance, even in situations where a commitment to read is not the best means to an end, as it is useful in the reverse situation, to proceed to consider what must be read.
What Should We Read?
The answer to the question of what one should read is contingent on the answer to the question of why one should read. To one who seeks entertainment, an attempt to read Newton’s Principia Mathematica should be torturous unless they are masochists. In the same vein, to one who seeks to improve their communication, an attempt to read Gulliver’s Travels should be more challenging than helpful.
At this point, the curious reader may have realized that we find ourselves at an impasse. To make any meaningful suggestions of what must be read, one needs to have a clear goal in mind.
Those who read to satisfy their curiosity are less constrained by this impasse. For one who is curious about trains can read almost anything about trains by the sheer force of their desire, and supposing that such desire is unsatisfied, can simply proceed to another book on trains. Such people find themselves back at the same impasse, however, when their curiosity is not fixated on single topics, but transient.
A general rule of thumb, once one has spelt out the ends of their reading, is to 1) read books about which they can have conversations with their peers and 2) start with books that serve as windows to other books.
It is easier to misinterpret a book than it is to misinterpret a speaker with whom we can make contact. In the case of a speaker, the speech is designed to build upon shared experiences to communicate a message, the language and style of delivery is tempered for specific understanding, and one can always ask questions to better understand elements of the speech. Books, on the other hand, tend to be written for a broader audience, are less specific, and one should consider themselves very fortunate if the author has an abundance of time and patience to reply to any questions (assuming that such questions get to the author in the first place). In light of this, having a peer with whom we can cross check our understanding, exchange views, and express ourselves is priceless and should be prioritized in the early stages of reading. By combining with the force of another, we increase 1) the likelihood that we would finish the books we start, 2) the likelihood that we will correctly identify the questions the author raises and the answers they provide (or as is relevant for the type of book under consideration) and 3) your ability to state the understanding of the book in your own terms, which is the true mark of understanding, and a precursor to your ability to weigh for acceptance and/or refutation of the authors views to the appropriate degree.
Books that map fields are also to be prioritised because 1) they help us to very quickly identify the subfields that may be useful to our quest, 2) can sometimes identify the books from which most of the knowledge in a field/subfield springs and 3) can sometimes facilitate the reading of complex books by giving us the necessary background. Of the three advantages, the third should be used sparingly, for it constitutes the substitution of another’s work in digesting and understanding a text where one should prioritize their own effort. Nonetheless, if one is not seeking to develop their own critical view, such a substitution should not prove dangerous.
How Should We Read?
Having settled upon what to read, the question of how one must read immediately follows. Its response depends in equal parts to the reasons for which one is reading and the type of material that is being read. It would be a grave mistake for one to attempt a reading of The Wealth of Nations in the same way as a reading of Things Fall Apart. Partly because it is rarely the case that those two books are read for the same reason, and partly because those two books are very different in content and presentation.
Francis Bacon famously wrote that “Some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few to be chewed and digested”. A good reader must therefore start any reading project by establishing the bucket into which the book under consideration falls. Shall it be tasted, swallowed, chewed or digested? This can be done by inspecting the book: read the writings on the back and the cover, read the preface, look closely at the table of content, browse through the pages to notice the style of writing and organization, without taking anything for its word, what are people saying about this book? At this point you are ready to put the book in a category.
Generally speaking, books that are to be tasted are to be read very quickly, sometimes in part, and without much consideration. This is the sort of reading I assume that one accords to a novel to which they have no particular attachment, a newspaper advertisement, or a random email. We are only concerned with obtaining a general sense of what is being presented, and nothing more.
Books that are to be swallowed are taken as they are. The reading of such books is not very critical, and it can be said very broadly that the purpose of such reading is to understand what the author has to say, to come to terms with the author. This is the sort of reading that one does of a novel by which they seek to be entertained; one goes through to the end, noticing the things that are worth noticing, but without much consideration. Such books are also often read to the end.
A direct consequence of this categorization of books is that not everything one reads is worth remembering. For some books, it is enough to have only a general impression; for others it is enough to only remember how they made us feel; and for some, remembering a fact here and there is sufficient.
Those books that should be chewed and digested are not intended to be remembered and any attempt to remember them, impressive as it appears, is an indication of questionable reading. For to seek to chew or digest a book is to wrestle with its contents; to come to terms with the author (have an accurate understanding of what the author is communicating), to break down the authors presentation into parts and appreciate how the parts reconstitute the main, to scrutinize them for innovation, errors of factfulness, incompleteness, and logical inconsistency, to pass judgement on the author’s ideas, and where there is agreement, to internalize the author’s ideas by correctly incorporating them in our worldview (in the case of a theoretical book) or deciding to act upon them (in the case of a practical book).
Another consequence of this categorization is that the mental power and dedication required for reading depends on the book and the capabilities of the reader. Some books could be well read while on transit, and some will require not only a table and chair, but the concentration of a 17th century monk. We should consider a man who attempts a reading of James Joyce’s Ulysses at the beach a fool or a genius, for either he makes no sense of what he reads and yet pretends the part, or his mental capacities are impressive enough to accord him the understanding of such a challenging text in a situation in which most men cannot read more than two pages of anything.
Parting Remarks
If you got this far, then I suppose you are serious about reading. That is both exciting and humbling: exciting because I am certain that you will enjoy, like most men have, this ritual by which we can break bread with the dead and visit places from the comfort of your armchair; humbling because you have trusted me this far to speak sense about this very personal journey on which you are about to embark. In parting, I would like to borrow from Michael de Montaigne, in urging that your reading, you should seek a well-made than a well-filled head, seeking, indeed, both the one and the other, but rather of the two to prefer manners and judgement to mere learning. Happy Reading!