Has society traded in books for Facebook? Will we go down in history as the generation that revered Bieber over Bradbury, Snooki over Shakespeare, Drake over Dickens?
During my senior year in high school, I distributed a survey on reading to all students as research for an article I was penning for the school newspaper.
In response to the question, "Do you read recreationally?" one anonymous student wrote, "Why would I?" I will never forget that slip of paper. His words not only left me infuriated, but also—for once in my life—at a loss for words.
Lately, I find that the most some teenagers are willing to read is an Instagram caption, and far too many are more familiar with Twitter's 140 characters than literature's infinite ones.
As a preschooler, I devoured the shelves of Barnes & Noble while other kids scampered down the aisles of Toys "R" Us. Some go weak in the knees at the scent of chocolate lava cake, but the new book smell has always been my aroma of choice.
By the time kindergarten rolled around, my teachers had granted me the magical title of "classroom reader." As I read books to my classmates at lunchtime, stories, like pixie dust, enabled me to soar.
Reading has enhanced my imagination, perception, intellect, and curiosity. Without books, "2+2 = 5" would be a mere calculation error instead of a chilling Orwellian warning, and "Hogwarts" would conjure up images of pigs with skin conditions.
Stephen King once said, "Books are uniquely portable magic." As a book's spine opens, so does the mind. After emerging from another's shoes via a novel, I can declare that I have been changed irrevocably. Delving into the lives of others has helped me appreciate what I have in this life I call my own.
Books infuse my days with creativity and sunshine. In grade school, if handed a stick, I'd argue that it was truly my magic wand—I was Hermione Granger, see? It's a tragic day when a toddler looks at a stick and sees a stick, for I fear that shortly after, she will become an adult who looks at the world and sees problems, but never solutions.
Through literature, I have witnessed societies crumbling down, tragedies ripping nations apart, children losing their parents, and parents losing their children. While perusing Elie Wiesel's Holocaust novel, Night, I may find myself shrouded in an impenetrable darkness by monsters masquerading as humans, but with the mere flip of a page, I am rocketed back to reality—safe and free, but more alert, empathetic, and grateful than ever before.
Through literature, I live a thousand lives. On Monday, I can hitchhike through the galaxy with Douglas Adams. At midweek, I can attend a party at Gatsby's (quite casual, Old Sport). And on Friday I can defeat Lord Voldemort—expelliarmus!
Although I might be physically confined to the ZIP code 11939, I need only crack open a book to be transported thousands of miles away. Dubai or Denver, Boston or Beijing, Salamanca or San Francisco—pages are my passport, and I am a world traveller with a serious case of wanderlust.
As the poet Joseph Brodsky once said, "There are worse crimes than burning books. One of them is not reading them."
Books are bittersweet conundrums: fleeting masses of pages that leave an everlasting imprint. In our frenzied world that so easily forgets, is there a more precious gift than this little slice of infinity?
But if all of that is not reason enough, here’s one final incentive to crack open a spine: perhaps if students were to read, they would be capable of filling out surveys without misspelling the word “anonymous.”
