Do you ever stop and think about the last time you read a book? I don’t mean listening to an audiobook or watching a film based on a book; I mean actually sat and immersed yourself in the text of a novel. Can you remember the last time you did it? Maybe you can’t.
Studies show that 40 per cent of people haven’t read a single book in 12 months, and though I don’t quite fit into that statistic, I can see why. Our attention spans are disappearing – perhaps last seen attempting to read Moby-Dick before wandering off sometime around page three. Experts suggest foul play is at hand – possibly involving TikTok and a video of a beauty guru doing her eyeliner whilst trying to explain the whole plot in 30 seconds.
In short? We have become social media obsessed at the expense of discovering the joy of amazing literature.
I mean, why commit to War and Peace when you can experience conflict, romance, betrayal, and resolution in a single TikTok recap of Love Island? Tolstoy gives us you 1,200 pages of complex narrative and Russian names you probably can’t pronounce. Social media gives us a minute of content and then zips us onto the next thing before we get bored. One respects your intellect. The other encourages your laziness.
Perhaps it’s the fault of classic literature. It’s made no attempts to modernise. Pride and Prejudice doesn’t have dark mode, and it doesn’t ‘ping’ when Mr Darcy walks into the room. It stubbornly suggests that you actually read words and – unbelievably – imagine things. In your head. Without graphics, sound or a like button!
Meanwhile, 21st century culture has optimised everything for efficiency. Why interpret symbolism when a viral thread on X will confidently inform you that the whale represents capitalism, toxic masculinity, or seasonal depression? Why dive deep into complexities of nuance, meaning and textual ambiguity when an algorithm can simply show you a faster, louder, and obviously more correct opinion in a micro-second?
It seems to me the modern reader loves books – but only in theory. We arrange them by colour and use them to make coffee tables exhume false elitism. We post photos captioned “currently reading” as if the act itself deserves applause. Actually getting to the last page, though? Doubtful.
What a shame. Because books aren’t dying because they’re irrelevant; they’re dying because they require the one thing modern society fears most: silence and solitude. A novel doesn’t flash with a notification. It won’t refresh. It can’t ask you to subscribe. It just sits there, full of beautiful words, daring you to focus for longer than yet another 30-second viral dance.
Turns out the biggest cliff-hanger isn’t at the end of a book. It’s whether we can make it past the first chapter.
