How Not to Feel Like a Total Stranger in Your Own Home Library

A few thoughts of my own and one question for you

The Library of Babel is an email newsletter exploring the wonders of literature, history and magic. All the installments are free. Sign up here:

---

The Book of Disquiet by the Portuguese writer and poet Fernando Pessoa is, on one hand, very close to my heart, and on the other—I’ve never really read it to the end. I think that’s nearly impossible, and I believe its translator, the excellent Richard Zenith, who also wrote a great biography of Pessoa, would agree. I rely on him since Pessoa has been dead for many decades.

The Book of Disquiet is a collection of musings—or perhaps fragments of thoughts, emotions, and impressions that often don’t connect to one another. Within a few pages, the writer shifts from categorical statements about the nature and essence of literature to passing descriptions of the weather, the loves and hatreds of an antisocial man and endless other topics he ponders—in short, a big mishmash.

Right at the beginning of the book, there’s a moment I find myself thinking about often, a moment I strongly relate to. Pessoa—or rather Bernardo Soares, the persona who supposedly authored the book—claims that even if Portugal were conquered, it wouldn’t particularly bother him, because what he truly loves, his real homeland, is the Portuguese language. From this, he follow by saying that what affects him most, what boils his blood and makes him lose patience, isn’t a person who expresses themselves poorly in writing or speech, nor a writer who abuses grammar, but rather a badly written page—something Soares hates as if it were a living, breathing person.

I suppose that over time, every reader develops a similar sensitivity.

I, too, try not to resent those who, in my view, write poorly—for all sorts of reasons and justifications: because people can improve and learn if they are willing to invest the effort. There are, of course, matters of personal taste (and mine, naturally, is the best, but never mind). And then there are things I simply don’t connect with, certain linguistic or literary frameworks—what Wittgenstein referred to as "language games"—that don’t speak to me and likely never will.

But what I struggle with most is a different kind of person—the one who declares that no one reads long texts anymore. If they make this claim with enthusiasm and satisfaction, they earn extra negative points from me, as if they had just blurted out some ridiculous statement like, “We should shut down all libraries since everything is online anyway.” I interpret such remarks as a hint that, deep down, they believe books are pointless.

And yet, despite myself—and I hate that this happens—as time goes on, I find myself identifying with this claim more and more. Or at least, I’ve come to understand it in a new way, with more nuance. The truth is, I also find it increasingly difficult. The older I get, the more my smartphone takes over my life, the longer my wife’s family pays Netflix subscriptions for us—I realize I’m reading fewer and fewer long books. Or books at all. Sometimes, I justify it to myself with a statement that’s at least half true: that some TV series today are so well-written, crafted, and acted that they are undoubtedly better than many novels.

There’s no way around it. In our noisy world, we have to work especially hard to keep reading long texts. What can we do to keep our reading habit alive? Everyone is probably going to need to find a different way, an informed and tested way to dedicate time to reading, depending on the situation and temperament.

As someone who is goal-oriented (but also extremely lazy—go figure), I find it easier to immerse myself in great books when I can turn reading into a task, or part of one. Since COVID, for instance, I’ve started over 20 different book clubs, each on a different topic—Jorge Luis Borges’ short stories, the apocryphal books that didn’t make it into the Bible, fantasy literature, and more. Since I was the moderator of all these clubs, this fun yet thankless role forced me to prepare thoroughly for each meeting, to read the works slowly and carefully—because, above all, I wanted to sound smart.

Another way I’ve tricked myself into reading more—a lot more—is by starting my own weekly newsletter on Substack, where I write about a new topic each time, usually literary, theological, or historical—and ideally all three together. This, again, forced me to read carefully, reflect, and compose a coherent text. Along the way, I also launched a podcast in my native Hebrew, called The Library of Babel (Sifriat Babel), where I discuss a literary work I love, or assume I will love once I get around to reading it as preparation for an episode, with a guest. So far, 47 episodes have aired. That’s at least 47 extra books I’ve read in the two years the podcast has existed.

Another trick I’ve discovered, and this really depends on the book, is that listening to an audiobook version often works better for me than reading it. This applies mostly to novels, much less to nonfiction, which doesn’t necessarily have a clear narrative. Philosophy books, for example, doesn’t translate well to audio—you have to read, pause, and think. You can’t really be swept away by the author’s creative force, even if the book is exceptionally well-written.

When I think about it, I realize I have, in fact, found ways to sustain my reading habits. For me, they are all tied to writing or creating—whether it’s running a book club, a newsletter, or a podcast. Gone are the days of my twenties when I could read three novels a week. But on the other hand, I have a wife, a job, a cat, and a very long list of shows and movies to watch.

So, fellow readers, my question to you is this: how do you make time for reading? What helps you read great and challenging literature?