Back to the Book

It’s 2014. I am eight years old. My parents say goodnight, flick off the light, and pull the door shut just before leaving my room. I count their footsteps like some kids count sheep—one, two, three—until I know they’ve settled back on the couch, immersed in “Grey’s Anatomy.” Like clockwork, I begin my nightly rebellion, reaching over for the lamp and opening up “The Magic Treehouse.” 

Growing up, fiction was my escape. On car rides, in the spare minutes after finishing schoolwork, by the pool—anywhere I could—I was captivated by stories, lost in remarkable worlds, and aching to know what happened next. 

Now, at 19, life feels different. That rush I felt still exists, but from notifications instead of page turns. What I once craved has turned into a chore. One chapter, formerly a small yet thrilling milestone, now feels like an insurmountable feat—something I delay and then reward myself for with a scroll through endless social media feeds.

Perhaps this is simply a personal experience. I’ve grown older, taken on more responsibilities, and prioritized other tasks over reading. Maybe my creativity has dwindled, and I have simply fallen out of love with books. But more likely, it isn’t just me—it’s the world we live in now. Our attention spans shrink by the day, and American society tends to reward efficiency over depth. We neglect activities that do not offer stimulation or check off a to-do list item.

In 2004, the average attention span on a given screen was roughly two and a half minutes. Over the past six years, this has decreased to only 47 seconds, a 70% reduction. This decline is linked to higher stress and worse performance, yet we still scroll during movies or check screens at family dinners to keep ourselves even more stimulated. We demand instant gratification, satisfied through short clips instead of long-form media.

The empath in me struggles with this on a sentimental level. Books teach us how to love and to yearn, to inhabit cultures beyond our own, to understand history, and to respect the wisdom of those who came before us. To read literature is to step into lives we will never live, but can deeply relate to. Through books, we grieve losses that are not our own, celebrate triumphs we did not achieve, and in the process, we become more human. Even more so than movies, where depictions are visually accessible, books demand that we actively construct the world in our minds. Where a screen might rush past moments, causing our thoughts to simultaneously move on, literature allows us to pause and reflect. It allows for deeper relationships with characters, as we dwell in the subtleties of human experience, noticing the unspoken. 

But the act of reading itself teaches us something different: skills necessary for success. Reading demands attention in a world full of distractions. It makes us exercise patience, discipline, and critical thought, training us to sit with complexity or discomfort without backing down or shying away. 

And yet, when assigned anything longer than five pages for a Gen Ed, we groan. We are given texts picked by renowned professors who have dedicated their lives to their crafts, and we go to extreme lengths not to read them. The problem is so generational that teaching staff across higher education institutions have noticed this decline. Where a new book each week produced fruitful discussions, students now struggle to pick up on details, work through challenges, or complete the readings at all. 

We are all guilty of having ChatGPT summarize readings. It is becoming second nature, and we have been convinced that the efficiency of this strategy makes it the most productive. The AI system delivers the main points well enough, but in taking that shortcut, we lose far more than just the details. We neglect the nuance of language, the explicit examples, and the engagement that trains thoughtful discernment. The act of reading itself can teach us more than the content alone. In forgoing this aesthetic experience, we risk not just losing empathy and understanding but also diminishing the intellectual curiosity that shapes brilliant minds.

So, is reading gone for good? Is this once infinite art form actually…finite?

Great literature has been collecting dust for years now, but it’s time to pull it back off the shelf. With no more strict bedtimes and having to hide under the covers to sneak in a couple of extra pages, there is no excuse. It’s time I found that little kid again—the one who counted footsteps, flicked on the lamp, and stepped into a different world. Maybe it’s time we all did. Because in choosing to read, we are choosing to slow down, to sit with our thoughts, and to care. In a culture built on speed and distraction, intentionality might be the most rewarding choice we can make. 

Paige Cornelius ’28 (paigecornelius@college.harvard.edu) would like to start a book club.