A Reflection on My Relationship with Books During the Pandemic

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Before March of last year, my relationship with books was not unlike many teenagers of my generation. I was an avid reader in elementary school. I remember being excited to read and flipping through pages whenever I had time to spare. Ten-year-old Isaac would stay up long past his bedtime on the first night of Hannukah, racing through his newest installment of Diary of a Wimpy Kid. But this all changed when I got my first device in middle school. As great as it was to have the world at my fingertips, my attention span dwindled, and I could feel my tolerance for slow-paced activities dissolving. I spent the next seven years of my life utterly disinterested in books. Reading became a punishment: a chore I had to finish to get through English class. With the pace of my life picking up, I grew apprehensive even to begin a book. Going through the hassle of concentrating for hours just didn’t seem worth my time. This was my attitude until the pandemic started.

I was finishing my senior year of high school when the pandemic began. Without any plans or excuses to get me out of it, quarantine was the perfect time to get back into reading. Because I had not been an active reader since I was little, I knew there was no better place to start than the classics I had missed. I researched the must-reads, asked for recommendations, and ordered a lot of books. I went through Crime and Punishment, 1984, The Odyssey, and dozens more. From March until school started in September, I read a total of 26 books--more than I could have expected. But this article isn’t about the books I read—and that’s the problem.

I am a very slow reader. At my best, I can get through 20 pages of Life of Pi in an hour. At my worst, I take a teeth-clenching hour to finish a measly 10 pages of One Hundred Years of Solitude. My reading speed boils down to two leading causes: I can’t scan, and I have to comprehend everything I read. The first cause is simple; unlike many readers, I cannot get myself to read sentences or even phrases at once. For whatever reason, I have to go meticulously, word by word. The second cause is trickier; I am constantly pausing when I read. I do it every time I come across an unfamiliar word, for which I have to ask Siri for the definition and for abstract imagery that I just can’t visualize off-the-bat. It always takes me a second to imagine the scene, to truly comprehend the words. Furthermore, I constantly stop to think, sticky-note, and take notes on symbolism, motifs, and everything in between. Surely, this is a blessing in disguise, you may think. It sounds tedious to read at a snail’s pace, but it must improve your reading comprehension tremendously. I bet you remember books like the back of your hand. I thought the same thing at first.

I cannot remember much of what I read. I first discovered this problem when I was trying to describe the plot of Slaughterhouse-Five to a friend. Even though I read the book slowly and analyzed it carefully, my memory of the book only months later became a hazy fog. Panicked, I ran through my list of books to gauge what I could remember from each. The results were discouraging. For each book, I could recall the main idea, a scene or two, and maybe a few character names, but that was all. Did I really spend two weeks reading East of Eden all to forget the 600 rich and immaculate pages of Steinbeck’s writing? This realization forced me to introspect on my motivation for reading if I forget much of the story in the long run. Was I only reading for entertainment? I thought I was doing it for enrichment: to walk away having internalized a meaningful message and gained wisdom I could carry for the rest of my life. What then was my goal?

I have been told that the moment you walk out of a lecture, you forget 90% of the material you were taught. Whether or not this is accurate, it is a universal frustration to have spent time focusing so intently and working towards an ultimately short-lived goal. We attend lectures to learn and hold on to the knowledge our teachers impart. Similarly, I read to hang on to every word and walk away as a changed person. Did Fahrenheit 451 change me subliminally even if I can no longer recall the characters? That’s a question I can’t answer. But I needed to find a more precise answer to my dilemma. Why was I working so feverishly to carefully analyze books that I couldn’t remember in retrospect? Was it even worth the effort?

I wondered if it was time to start re-reading my books but winced at the thought of re-tackling those behemoths while there are still countless great books I have yet to open. A reading pace like mine doesn’t exactly afford me the chance to re-read unless I am willing to forfeit the opportunity to read so many other great books before I die. 

The truth is that I’m still searching for the reason I read. If my original goal was to collect and hang stories on the display case of my memory, I need to change course. But for the time being, I don’t have a destination. Nonetheless, I continue to read, if for no other reason, but to appreciate the great works of literature, monumental feats of humanity. Maybe the books I’ve read are shaping me in the shadows, enriching my character behind the scenes. Or maybe they’re just an entertaining collection of paper and spattered ink. Regardless, they are a part of my life now, and I know they are here to stay.