No matter how wonderful reading is said to be, the truth is that it is becoming increasingly difficult to actually do it. For me, despite my strong passion for reading, it can still be a struggle at times. It makes me wonder how others cope with it. Whenever I talk with my students, I notice that they find reading particularly challenging. And this sentiment seems to grow stronger every single year.
These days, with AI easily serving up neat summaries of everything, it’s only natural for people to think, “Why bother reading the whole thing anyway?”
Despite this, there are several reasons why we absolutely must read. In fact, I have spent a lot of time searching for those reasons myself. While I have my own personal motivations, understanding the causes and effects discussed in psychology, psychoanalysis, and neuroscience provides an even stronger boost of motivation. Indeed, I often experience “book slumps” (periods of reading fatigue) myself, so I constantly need these kinds of reminders to keep going. While I plan to explore what these disciplines have to say through other books in future posts, here are a few of my own personal reasons:
Mental Training
This varies slightly depending on what kind of book you are reading. For instance, a fast-paced thriller doesn’t require much effort; in fact, the challenge there is often trying to stop. On the other hand, reading a slightly difficult humanities book, a subject you know nothing about, or a demanding work of philosophy requires a great deal of active thinking, analysis, and often other activities like taking notes to organize your thoughts or looking up words in a dictionary. It is, frankly, a hassle! But if you chew on it and push through, you eventually discover the true beauty of it.
The reason I call this “training” is because it is just like strength training. If you skip it for a few days, even reading a single page takes significantly more effort. But if you do it little by little every day, you develop a form of “mental stamina” that supports you even when the material gets tough.
When reading Heidegger or Hegel, I would spend an hour on just two or three pages—no, I didn’t even think about turning the page; instead, I chewed on and savored every single sentence. Even after reading the whole thing and organizing my notes, there were times when I still felt lost. (It’s that devastating feeling where you think you understood each sentence as you read it, but after three pages, you realize you have no idea what the overall point is. It feels absolutely crushing.)
In those moments, I simply read it all the way through once, and then read it again. With Heidegger’s Being and Time, it was only after reading it once, going through a commentary book, and then reading the original text twice more that things finally began to click. The feeling of that breakthrough is comparable to the sheer thrill of silently clenching your teeth, doing abdominal workouts for about three months, and suddenly realizing that something resembling muscle is finally starting to show. Once you taste that kind of thrill, your fear of books vanishes. This, perhaps, is the greatest harvest of all. In a way, reading might just be the pure pleasure of “leveling up” or “conquering a boss,” disguised as the pursuit of knowledge.
The question is, does it get any easier after that? Not necessarily. To frame it that way would be incorrect. In reality, the hardest thing to fight is an impatient mind. There are moments when you grow weary of a book, and other times when you are tempted to jump to a different one. It is just like working hard on your chest routine, only to have the muscle pain flare up all over again when you switch back to a back workout after a long time. Enduring and passing through these moments is also part of the training. If you discipline your mind and slowly chew on each page—no, each line, or rather, each individual word—you eventually earn the privilege of being drawn directly into the author’s mind. What a wondrous and deeply humbling experience that is. For me, the hardest part is resisting the urge to rush and forcing myself to tolerate those slow, deliberate moments.
At any rate, this is how the brain builds its muscles. Patience, endurance, and all of these traits are closely linked to metacognition, which is why I consider reading to be an incredibly vital form of training.
Rest
My reading rhythm shifts depending on the type of book. Some books must be read aggressively; others demand the utmost slowness and focus; while some, as mentioned earlier, are so engaging that they require no great effort at all. For me, those effortless reads are usually light essays or novels—the kinds of books I read during or after meals, or right before going to bed. Slipping into a story without having to tense up or keep a notebook by my side can be far more addictive and enjoyable than getting lost in short videos on YouTube or TikTok. Finding such a book is a stroke of luck, and when I do, it is incredibly easy to stay up all night reading. For me, books serve as a portal to another world, much like Alice’s rabbit hole. In those moments, at least, all anxiety fades away.
I fully agree with Montesquieu, who said, “I have never known any distress of the mind which was not mitigated by an hour’s reading.” When we have a conflict with students at school or face troubles in the outside world, we often end up chewing on those problems late into the evening. In Buddhist terms, we are actively shooting ourselves with the “second arrow.” When the mind is this chaotic, picking up a book is harder than it seems. Oh, you can physically lift the book (out of a desire to escape), but focusing is nearly impossible.
In times like these, I read aloud. I gently read each character, one by one, in my own voice. At first, it is still hard to focus, and whenever I realize the words aren’t sinking in, I go back to the previous page. But after about five minutes of reading, I find myself completely absorbed in the sound of my own voice. Or perhaps a more accurate description would be that I reach a state where the physical voice itself seems to fade away. My mind grows quiet, and I remain entirely present within the book. Of course, this doesn’t magically lift all of life’s burdens, but for a brief moment, it places me in a quiet garden where I can step away from all that stress. This is how books gift us with true rest. When it comes to finding genuine rest, apart from taking walks, napping, meditating, or simply zoning out, there really aren’t many options left for modern humans. But perhaps we can save the topic of “rest” for next time!
