Cue the new tech that promises a 1000 word-per-minute
reading speed. It’s called Spritz, and I’m sure there’ll be many competitors to
it in the near future. With that kind of reading speed, journalists note, one
would be able to finish a Harry Potter novel in less than an hour.
I have qualms about this, many of which I will explore in
the sentences below. One, reading speed does not = comprehension. Two, enjoying
literature and deriving meaning from it is not a function of how quickly one
can devour it. Three, form is tied to function; that is, flashing words on a
screen does little to help the limited attention span of most Americans as
opposed to the deeply hard work of close reading, an endeavor that challenges
and expands the mind.
After spending a good amount of time in a career in human
resources, I’ve come to think about the value of a liberal arts degree. I of
course, majored in English Literature, a major that seems to be omitted in many
job descriptions. To me, the question, “Why did you major in English” is
exactly the same question as “Why did you major in finance?” Because I got
value out of it. Because I believe that time is limited; I can’t spend time studying a subject that does not interest me.
‘But it’s not practical to major in the humanities,’ you
claim.
I ask, ‘what is practical?’
Practicality must be grounded in happiness. The true merit
of an major, it seems to me, is not whether it garners more purchasing power,
but whether it challenges one to think and to love knowledge: to allow one to
be happy. I suppose majoring in history or philosophy may not be the most
profitable decision, but if we expanded our definition of ‘practical’ to
include happiness, I do think that it could be a wise decision. The value of
faith, according to William James in The
Varieties of Religious Experience, has to do with the way it can have a
palliative and restorative effect on a person’s social and spiritual life.
Here, the choice to believe is akin to majoring in the humanities. It may not
be practical—it may not necessarily be logical—but that is not to say its value
is grounded in those two things. Faith challenges our senses and allows us to
not discount the value of what we do not understand.
For example, I believe that studying literature is
important. I believe it provides a window which empathy flows through like
light, illuminating the lives of ordinary and great people. I think it can provide
a solution to the problem of solipsism: the idea that one is utterly and
totally alone. Because for the moment a reader takes in a writer’s words, the
two are enjoined in an exercise of sympathetic
understanding. Recent neuroscience has confirmed this theory. From a recent NY
Times article called “Your Brain on Fiction”:
“individuals who frequently read fiction seem to be better able to understand other people, empathize with them and see the world from their perspective. “
“Raymond Mar, a psychologist at York University in Canada, performed an analysis of 86 fMRI studies, published last year in the Annual Review of Psychology, and concluded that there was substantial overlap in the brain networks used to understand stories and the networks used to navigate interactions with other individuals — in particular, interactions in which we’re trying to figure out the thoughts and feelings of others. Scientists call this capacity of the brain to construct a map of other people’s intentions “theory of mind.” Narratives offer a unique opportunity to engage this capacity, as we identify with characters’ longings and frustrations, guess at their hidden motives and track their encounters with friends and enemies, neighbors and lovers.”
I have to wholeheartedly agree. I read fiction not only
because it’s fun, but I also believe it will help me understand people. Don’t
get me wrong: I don’t think it’s a perfect substitute for real human interaction. But I
do think that certain neural experiences are only possible within the context
of literature and storytelling. What kind of experiences? Take Infinite Jest by
David Foster Wallace, for example. It describes the lives of drug addicts and
AA-committed individuals so beautifully and empathetically that I have
developed sympathy for the less fortunate, because I believe the poorest and
the most destitute of us are just that: without favorable fortune. Literature
reminds us of what we have, whether we find ourselves in similar or disparate
situations. It provides role models (Atticus Finch), imperfect people (Jay
Gatsby), heroes (the Old Man and the Sea), families (the Joad family), human
beings (Hamlet), and lovers (Romeo and Juliet).
Perhaps Spritz will allow you to read this blog post in less
than four minutes. But will it allow you to understand Gravity’s Rainbow? Will
it allow you to admire the character of Atticus Finch? To contemplate the
political themes of 1984? To re-read the ending of the Grapes of Wrath to
adequately grasp the depth of emotion captured in that last hauntingly
beautiful scene? To be a witness to the emotional horrors of the Holocaust, captured in Night and Sophie’s Choice? Or is Spritz an exercise in practicality, that
ill-defined word that may presume speed reading is without flaw? I invite you
to ask these questions of yourself. I’ve given my answer: reading allows the
simmering of thought. It transmits the emotional experience of one to another through words. To me, it allows the slow, silent practice of empathy, which is not
only practical, but necessary in a world that is determined to spin faster than
is humanly desirable.
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