Deep Reading

Social media has taken the place of many a newspaper during early morning routines, paired with a flaky pastry and takeaway cup filled with cream and hot coffee. And it is that medium through which numerous articles on life and love, relationships and relativity come to play.

Which would you choose?

A recent reposting of an article in Elite Daily entitled "Why Readers, Scientifically, Are the Best People to Fall in Love With" piqued my interest the other day. Not so much for the romantic sentiments of being able to truly understand your feelings or the association with possessing the knowledge and experiences of 1000 souls (which really is quite creepy in truth...), but the idea of deep reading.

Coined by American writer Sven Birkerts in his compilation The Gutenberg Elegies (1994), he claims

"Reading, because we control it, is adaptable to our needs and rhythms. We are free to indulge our subjective associative impulse; the term I coin for this is deep reading: the slow and meditative possession of a book. We don't just read the words, we dream our lives in their vicinity."

Birkirts continues

"The printed page becomes a kind of wrought-iron fence we crawl through, returning, once we have wandered, to the very place we started. Deep listening to words is rarely an option. Our ear, and with it our whole imaginative apparatus, marches in lockstep to the speaker's baton."

The idea of deep reading is a foreign concept to many, as claimed by the above article. Can it be said that the ideas put forth are a proper representation of the culture and ideals of the age? That the entire website, both contributors and readers, are a reflection of the Millenial generation? That as a group, we have become so entangled in technology that words of ink and pressed pulp are no longer commonplace?

I hope not. For otherwise, my existence and those of many friends will be among the minority. A dying breed.

Birkerts argues against the technological tentacles grasping at our lives, claiming that reading through a device is not the same as holding spine of a book beneath your fingers and he is right. There is nothing like the smell of a book, the feeling of the cover caressed by your fingers and the rigidity of a perfect spine, still yet uncracked, pages unopened. And yet, the idea of deep reading, I contend, cannot be disregarded merely because of its electronic replacement, whether a reading device such as a Nook or an application like the Kindle.

However, Birkerts rightly believes that

"When we read with our eyes, we hear the words in the theater of our auditory inwardness. The voice we conjure up is our own–it is the sound-print of the self. Bringing this voice to life via the book is one of the subtler aspects of the reading magic, but hearing a book in the voice of another amounts to a silencing of that self–it is an act of vocal tyranny. The listener is powerless against the taped voice... The collaborative component is gone; one simply receives"

The popular concept of bringing books to life through the movie screen has long irked me. How can 600 pages of prose be condensed into 90 minutes of screen time? Or even 180 minutes as with more recent adaptations of classics? Instead of skimming or using Cliffnotes, students zero in on film adaptations, occasionally not realizing the errors in translation. While I cannot say I am a proponent of the former, the idea of reading a simplified version is far superior when the objective is to form a literary basis. Now, it is not to say that an actor has not performed well, but in deference to the original authors, we must separate ourselves from the text, appreciate both forms of diversion for their own merits.

Yet, I digress. For this was to be on the immersion of the self into a book, not a social commentary. And so I pose the same questions.

When was the last time you read a book cover to cover without skimming?

When was the last time you sat down without music or a movie to the silence of rustling pages or the tapping of a button?

Have you ever felt the cool drip of tears down your face unexpectedly? Or startled yourself with a shout of laughter?

For me, it was only last night when I felt the pain of deep reading. The heartbreak of giving myself to a world the author created, investing myself in the characters and their desires. The feeling of losing all I held dear because of one harsh word. And the disappointment mirrored in their eyes. I do not speak of pain in the literal sense, of the sharp stabbing sensation of being impaled or the crushing substernal pressure of a myocardial infarct. No. This was the pain of loving too deeply, of reading so hard that reality slipped away and nothing existed but for the world I dreamt of.

Is this the reasoning behind why readers make the best people to fall in love with? Or is it the other way round? That in losing ourselves to worlds which only exist in writing, we learn to love so unconditionally, giving away bits of ourselves without consciously thinking of the repercussions. The salient points of the article show what the reader can bring to the relationship, but what of their other half? What is it they offer to one who loves so deeply, cares without thought and brings wisdom to light? Seems a bit one sided, no?

And therein lies the truth. From the hands of Poe, "for all that we see or seem... is but a dream within a dream."

Beginnings

It's interesting the things you find when you're looking for something else. After combing through my email, I found a little drabble from 2007. Five years. It still amazes me how different I sound, when I write with an intent in mind or let my fingers take over and type whatever comes to mind. So in the vein of beginnings: the beginning of a new semester, the beginning of my second year of medical school and the beginning of a time of more prolific writing/musing, here's a story of beginning.

Beginning to Live

Taking a breath, Ieni let herself fall forward. The air rushed past her face and she opened her eyes, only to close them once more before she hit the water. It was dangerous to go diving off of the bluffs but Ieni had been doing so for years. At first, it had been a dare, a challenge she had to meet from the others her age. But later, it became her salvation, the one thing to calm her mind when nothing else worked. The sensation of falling kept her from thinking, allowing her to focus her energy on her entrance into the sea. Kicking her legs, Ieni made her way to the surface and breathed in, smiling sadly when she saw the lingering rays of the sun vanish behind the oncoming dusk.

It was time to return, but after running for so long, Ieni wondered if it would be worth the effort. But she had promised to return after a season, and with the setting of the sun, a new cycle was beginning. Soon, the cold would set in and she would no longer be able to stay close to the beach. Swimming back to shore, Ieni reluctantly left the still warm water. She glanced behind her shoulder at the myriad of colors streaking the sky and hoped she would be able to swim without
regrets again. The village elders had only allowed her to live on her own with the condition that she not leave without saying good-bye. It was a strange request, but after the tradition of her family, it was the only promise which would make her return to the village. Every member of her family had left without telling anyone, slipping away silently during the night, never to return.

As Ieni gathered up her clothes and the meager belongings she had taken away with her, she sighed, looking towards the path with trepidation. It wasn't so much the loss of the ocean and her freedom so much as the return to the village which bothered her. She would be expected to marry, to act the dutiful wife and daughter, but all she wanted was to swim, to dive and feel the water caress her skin.

Stepping under the trees, Ieni paused, looking before her at the shadows. There would be no moon this night to light her way and guide her. The sky was dark, covered with clouds to mirror her feelings.

Closing her eyes, Ieni let her feet move her, knowing the path even without sight. It was second nature, something that never really left even after a summer away. The voice of Elder Shi spoke to her as she walked, getting ever closer to the circle of lights which marked the outskirts of the village. "Only when we are no longer afraid do we begin to live." The ocean would never leave; it would always be a walk away. She would not abandon her village as had her mother before her. She would stay, and watch. Perhaps, Ieni was beginning to live again.