It’s easy to be cynical in these cynical times, surrounded, as we are, by various illiteracies:
- Pop culture, with its contempt for age and authority
- Commercial culture, with its money as the end-all-and-be-all
- Hedonist-nihilist culture, with its lack of connection to anything larger than an orgasm
As someone trained in language and literature, I might be expected to have my nose down in a book. (Or up some other part.) Book! What’s that? Book! What’s that for?

Earnest, playful, dreaming, ideal, will kids grow up to read? Or will they be absorbed in mindless pleasures?
A retired friend who taught for a living reads voraciously. He reads novels, history, sociology, religion, science. He reads to get ahead, could be, which may be, deliberately, behind where the rest of us are going. Chris gives me a flying precis of the last half dozen books he’s read, then throws up his hands, and asks, “But, really, what use is reading?”
Doesn’t it improve the mind? I say.
Maybe it’s a process rather than product? I suggest. A process that generates a bit of light in this time of so much darkness? A bit of cool in this time of so much heat?
It’s not my intention here to talk about politics. (It only increases the temperature, quenches the light.) Or to mention religion, either. (Its effects are similar.)
I’d like, rather, just to pose a question. Does reading do anything? Does it have any uses? Or is it, well, just beautiful, fantastical, airy, impractical, platonic, archaic, feckless?
Do individuals need reading? Do businesses? And to what end? And to what purpose?
Are those of us who read, for duty and, yes, pleasure more than a little like the Libyan rebels, holding back the forces of brutality and darkness?
(As Hemingway said, in another connection, “Wouldn’t it be pretty to think so?”)
