Josephine Tovey
Things on the internet always feel new, even as they are
increasingly familiar.
I left Nelson Mandela in a lime quarry on Robben Island,
the same way I abandoned Clarissa Dalloway on her way to the florist , and
Ishmael, only shortly after he set sail. That was how far I managed to get into
Mandela’s Long Walk to Freedom, Virginia Woolf’s Mrs Dalloway and Herman
Melville’s Moby-Dick , before the books joined the mushrooming pile by my
bedside, or the increasingly fraudulent display that is my bookshelf.
I was enjoying each one. But I couldn’t seem to finish
them.
Somewhere between the invention of Facebook, Game of
Thrones entering a third season and the 356th GIF ‘‘ listicle’ ’ on Buzzfeed
about signs you’re almost 30, I stopped reading books.
Starting them frequently, but rarely finishing them. I
struggle to remember the last time I read one cover to cover. I can’t be
certain it was this year.
It wasn’t always so. I grew up surrounded by books; they
were an extension of my hands most nights as a child and younger adult. I
dragged around a gently chewed favourite story book as an infant, wrestled over
bedtimes as a schoolkid to fit in ‘‘ just a few more chapters, mum!’’ and had
crushes on novel characters as often as I did on dead lead singers.
But increasingly, it seems the dizzying superabundance of
readable and watchable and eminently digestible stuff on the internet is
proving a powerful opponent.
‘‘ I feel your pain,’’ responded one friend when I
admitted my problem (on Facebook, of course). I had put up a status update
asking if friends experienced the same shift. ‘‘ I love the idea of reading
books and there are occasions when I have the time to read them,’’ my friend
continued. ‘‘ But, I’ve found that years of ‘training ’ my brain to quickly
shuck different articles, text messages and other quick copy for juicy information
has left me unable to relax with a book. Or, worse, once I think I know what a
book is about and how it’ll probably end, I get bored of it and look for
something else to quickly understand.’’
‘‘ Total FOMO [Fear of Missing Out],’’ wrote another. ‘‘
I keep thinking ‘it’s OK, the book will be there to read later, so I’ll
read/watch the interwebs now’ . Which is silly, because it’s not like the
online article/ TV show is going to self-destruct if not read in T-minus 5
mins, but the chance to talk about it with all the other peeps reading it
might.’’
Another described a familiar pattern: ‘‘ Finish a page,
check Twitter, it’s all over.’’
Reading and finishing books with any regularity seems
increasingly a preserve of people who have been able to carve out the
discipline to do so. Or those immune to the lure of social media.
There is an argument to be made reading fewer books
shouldn’t matter, especially if you’re reading other things – brilliant
journalism, short stories, tweets. There may be something inherently
conservative in placing so much emphasis on an artform whose heyday may be
passing . Ideas and wisdom and humour come in all types of vessels , spoken and
written, illustrated , sung and GIF-ed .
But I can’t help but feel guilty. It’s a personal guilt,
because I’m betraying convictions developed young that I still hold, but just
can’t seem to follow through on. There is a value in the deeper nourishment of
books. I believe – I remember – that they offer far greater nuance than most
other forms. The best ones are simply good for you, and stay with you for life.
When we reach for our laptop at night instead of the
dog-eared book, what we might be choosing is the perpetual hyper-connectedness
and quick gratification we can get from articles that can be quickly digested
and discussed. Things on the internet always feel new, even as they are
increasingly familiar.
The New York Times columnist Frank Bruni recently likened
this behaviour to ‘‘ spinning your wheels’ ’ in one space, disappearing into
smartphones and laptops which may have the promise of expanding our horizons
but too often tuck us away in familiar ‘‘ virtual enclaves’’ .
Books can’t be swallowed in one sitting, with several web
browsers open, one eye on your email, before moving on to the next post. They
ask for an investment of time and disconnectedness from the moment that feels
harder with each new year and each new app. But this disconnect should be
welcome. It should and could be relief. A chance to stretch the brain, dwell
and disappear where no Facebook friend or Twitter follower can find you. So
tonight I will try a bit harder to make the time, and go back to join Mandela
on Robben Island or Mrs Dalloway in that florist . Not as a guilt-driven
penance but as a kindness to myself.
Josephine Tovey is the Herald’s education editor.
Copyright © 2013 The Sydney Morning Herald
This article is from the September 6 issue of The Sydney Morning Herald Digital Edition. To subscribe for $4.50 a week, visit http://smh.com.au/digitaledition.
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