What kind of tempting, strange or radical new things are waiting to be discovered outside our individual identities and experiences? How do you begin to know what you don’t know? It’s about reading—a practice that doesn’t require a university degree or abundant money. As long as you have a library card, books remain one of the most affordable and accessible art forms there is.
Last month I stood in the sun-drenched precinct of Redfern Carriageworks for another year of the Sydney Writers Festival. It’s one of the few events I know of where volunteers hand out bookmarks alongside programs, while luminaries like Bruce Pascoe and Stan Grant quietly meander like other avid readers. Before I made my way to the first panel of the day, I admired a bright blue display above the bustle, where Ann Patchett’s words reaffirmed bookish habits:
‘As every reader knows, the social contract between you and a book you love is not complete until you can hand that book to someone else and say, here, you’re going to love this.’
It’s one of life’s greatest joys, exchanging books—just ask the librarians in my book club. I look forward to their emails each month, not only for the decision on our latest title to yell about, but because even their signature blocks reveal great recommendations.
The modern dilemma is the time it takes to turn pages; to set aside minutes for a book; to find humility to engage with another person’s story.
I love the way conversation unfolds when someone offers an invitation in the form of a good read. It’s comforting when a clever book finds you at the right moment, for something contemplative or immersive. I like knowing I can travel far and wide, through ideas as well as places, without leaving the cosy sanctuary of my favourite chair at home. I’ve tried thought experiments as an enslaved woman in the Deep South during the 1800s, and inquiries as a student of Zen Buddhism studying in the Himalayas. I can find empathy for the perilous chronicles of a marriage coming to an end, or delve into strange speculative fiction about climate destruction and orange-bellied parrots. It’s a form of escape where sense-making is equally safe and revealing.
Australia Reads is a dedicated not-for-profit with the sole aim of understanding reader motivations, to shed more light on whatever the elusive trick is to ‘more books, more often’. Though most (42%) Australians are occasional readers (on average, one book every 15 weeks), 2021 data indicated that one quarter (25%) of the general adult population in Australia had not read or listened to a single book in 18 months. What might this allude to, regarding our knowledge and understanding of diverse identities? Or, our ability to empathise and connect with our national myriad of stories?
When journalist Johann Hari interviewed a professor of literacy at Stavanger University in Norway, he discovered that reading books fosters a very different kind of approach to taking in information. Reading books is linear, ‘focused on one thing at a time for a sustained period’ whereas reading online or on a screen ‘trains us to read in a different way — a manic skip and jump from one thing to another’. Throughout ‘Stolen Focus’ Hari examines the loss of cognitive patience and the collapse of sustained reading, blaming the way mediums of communication are condensing. It means we’re discretely conditioned to adhere to new social codes. What might television tell us during the news cycle? That the world is fast, destructive and happening all at once. What might social media say when we’re scrolling? That life is about exhibitionism and hollow parodies where ego reigns supreme. But books? They are a distinctly different medium, which Hari says conveys three important things:
‘Firstly, life is complex, and if you want to understand it, you have to set aside a fair bit of time to think about it. You need to slow down. Secondly, there is a value in leaving behind your other concerns and narrowing down your attention to one thing, sentence after sentence, page after page. Thirdly, it is worth thinking deeply about how other people live and how their minds work. They have complex inner lives just like you.’
Hari helped me to understand why I was moved to tears and frustration when I read Micheline Lee’s Quarterly Essay, Lifeboat - Disability, Humanity and the NDIS. As an able-bodied woman, I do not know Lee’s lived experience personally, though I am a participatory researcher regularly consulting for social policy. Last year I partnered with Our Watch and Women with Disabilities Victoria for Changing the Landscape, and I would not have been capable of holding space for diverse disabilities, had I not read Lee’s story. She describes the National Disability Insurance Scheme (NDIS) with disconcerting reflection—an oasis in the desert for some, but for others, it means pathologised exclusion. I have since learnt that my privilege and power as a co-design partner relies on my ability to slow down, narrow my attention, and consider other complex lives.
Reading is for self-discovery, too. I’ve found solace in books over the years, more so as a queer woman, a mother, and a writer. Lidia Yuknavitch’s memoir ‘The Chronology of Water’ has become a gritty comrade, where elements of her troubles and transcendence stand out in different ways when I read it again, and again. It’s now the book I gently place into the pockets of feminist folks stumbling along their paths to self-acceptance.
Author Kate Di Camillo is also familiar with transforming the hurt and suffering of the world, but with whimsical children’s book characters. She follows sentience to a story, with her inner eight-year-old as her guide. In conversation with Krista Tippett, she reflects on whether writers should be honest with children, to tell the truth or preserve their innocence. Why might children reach for sad stories like Charlotte’s Web, only to turn the book over and read it again? She says it’s about the sacred task of telling stories for young people, how to tell the truth, and how to make that truth bearable. Di Camillo is also fond of Ursula Le Guin’s ‘Operating Instructions’ because it reiterates that literature is the operating instructions: books are ‘the best manual we have’ because we can connect across time and space, through stories.
I have a four-year-old daughter, and I have been pleasantly surprised at how often her home library astounds me. Just to clarify, astounds me. Reading Davina Bell aloud, or admiring Alison Lester’s narratives is not just for children. Jack Carty’s lyrical genius now extends to the pages of our bedtime reading, and we reaffirm what chosen family means to us through ‘The Love We Share’. In fact, there are a number of adults I know of who would benefit from simplified titles on friendship, care or inclusivity. We’re almost ready to try out Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s book ‘The Little Prince’, Tim Winton’s ‘Blueback’, and Colin Thiele’s ‘Stormboy’. Humans are ever-changing and evolving, so surely, there is value in returning to the lessons of storytelling in all shapes and forms. It’s like philosophy for weary minds.
Maybe like Di Camillo, I believe in books because they work with fierce devotion to expand hearts and minds. Capacious hearts and minds. Reading helps us to hold space for complexity and mystery, all the while, honouring the way each and every one of us is storied. So, if it’s been a while since your last compelling book, consider this a polite nudge to find your local library and say hello to a librarian.
What are you waiting for?
Readings and other things
I like how science fiction fosters healthy escape, but I also feel increasingly more intrigued by the social chaos of a post-apocalyptic world. I recommend Octavia E. Butler: Parable of the Sower, and Kindred, but would also argue that her body of work is for every reading list.
One of my favourite writers, Richard Flanagan, penned an essay for the 2023 closing address of the Sydney Writers Festival. It is a poignant acknowledgement of Australia’s inauthentic heart, a tribute to the cockatoo and the Yolngu forth tense, and the profound cost of saying ‘no’ to Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people.
For a light-hearted, laughter-filled interview about nurturing capacious hearts, listen to Krista Tippett in conversation with author Kate Di Camillo.
I’m a firm believer in better reading for better writing. What can I say, I’m devoted to noticing! As I spend more time with my manuscript and piles of library reads, I’ve been turning to Charlotte Wood (A Luminous Solution) and Anne Lamott (Bird by Bird).
Fellow reader, I see you, and your curiosity for tenderness. Let this be the beginning of a conversation and consider passing on a Field Notes article.
This gave me the warm fuzzies 🥰