One more second

Stack traces in reading comprehension

Sometimes, when I read, my mind isn’t really ‘in it’.

The words are going in, my eyes are scanning each line, I am fulfilling the outer appearance of reading, but no meaning is really being made. Perhaps meaning is being made on a word-level, but on a sentence-level, or a paragraph-level, I couldn’t tell you.

What’s the point of that? A bizarre sense of duty? A feeling that the more books I robotically scan, the better off I will be?

When I am in this state of mind, it is usually because for some reason I feel ‘in a hurry’. I’ve got a 10 minute break, so I should make the most of this. But paradoxically, I’ll end up reading very slowly and ineffectively. I’ll find myself reading and re-reading the same section because I can’t for the life of me figure out what the next sentence is supposed to mean unless I have grasped the previous one. But perhaps I can’t understand the previous one because I didn’t properly read the one before that? Better go back even further.

In programming, they call this a ‘stack trace’. It allows you to understand an error in terms of the processes that precede it. I find that with reading, a small error in comprehension at the beginning can often give rise to a large one further on in the text, as each paragraph aims to further flesh out an argument or narrative based on a structure that was developed in previous ones.

I have found that the best way to avoid this kind of problem is to avoid any temptation to rush, and allow myself an extra few seconds for the very first paragraph of a book or essay to ‘paint a picture in the mind’, ideally with some emotional connotations attached to it. This provides a mental structure of understanding for any future information to attach itself to. That investment of time at the beginning is more than paid back — I usually find myself getting into a ‘flow state’, zipping through pages quickly.

The alternative situation, in which I am driven by some external compulsion to read (to appear smart?), to fulfil the outer appearance of reading without any associated inner meaning, is essentially a state of alienation that gets worse as you try to continue. My eyes are scanning, my hands are turning the pages, but nothing is happening ‘up there’. Erich Fromm talks about the alienation of language like so:

If I express a feeling with a word, let us say, if I say “I love you,” the word is meant to be an indication of the reality which exists within myself, the power of my loving. The word “love” is meant to be a symbol of the fact love, but as soon as it is spoken it tends to assume a life of its own, it becomes a reality. I am under the illusion that the saying of the word is the equivalent of the experience, and soon I say the word and feel nothing, except the thought of love which the word expresses.

What is being said here about speech, is what I am saying about reading; I read the word and feel nothing. But Fromm was right, it applies equally to speech too.

Sometimes in a conversation, I will feel something that is difficult to express. I could either take a bit of time to find the words, or I could decide that there’s no time for that, and choose something safe and formulaic — perhaps related to a prior feeling or no feelings at all — and leave my current sentiment unexpressed. The latter may make you look more confident or articulate (so you think at the time), but you are stifling your own feelings in a way that sets a bad precedent for the future. You can become further and further alienated from a conversation just as you can become increasingly alienated from a book — all because you didn’t want to invest those extra few seconds early on to make it real.

Again, I think the solution is to slow down a bit. The fears that cause your body to outpace your mind become self-fulfilling if you give in to them. If you fear not making the most of your reading time, you never get past the first page. If you fear being verbally inexpressive, this is what will happen if you give in to the expediency of unoriginal utterances.

You must reserve the right to do nothing if it means feeling something.

In a world that places a premium on consistent output and appearances, the ability to stop and allow the mind to catch up may seem like a luxury. But it’s a luxury you can afford.