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The question has changed, as one Oxford don noted wanly on social media, >from aWhat are you reading at university?A to aAre you reading at >university?A Such is the state of undergraduates entering English
literature courses these days, brains addled by scrolling on their
mobile phones, that universities are now offering areading resilienceA >courses to help them tackle the unfamiliar task of reading long, old, >sometimes difficult books.
ItAs a whole new cause of gloom to discover that even students who have >actively signed up to study English literature at university are
struggling to read books
WeAre accustomed, some of us, to feeling gloomy about the sinking
popularity of Eng lit u once comfortably among the most popular choices
at A-Level and most applied-for at university, now very much not. WeAre >accustomed, too, to regretting the gobbetisation of how itAs now taught
at GCSE and A-Level, and the drive to teach ever shorter texts in the
face of dwindling teenage concentration spans. But itAs a whole new
cause of gloom to discover that even those students who have actively
signed up to study English literature at university are struggling to
read books.
There are arguments to be had, heaven knows, about the value and purpose
of English literature as an academic discipline. They have been being
had since it first came into being. Did acquaintance with the great
works, as F R Leavis (and before him George Eliot and many others)
thought, improve you morally? Or, when that line started to seem a bit >airy-fairy, was formal analysis u structural morphology, and all that
jazz u the respectable way to go?
When literary theory swept through the academy in the 1980s and 90s, you >could see dons latching on to it with a yelp of relief, as if to say:
weAre doing something intellectually rigorous now, not just reading
stories and poems and responding to them. Marxist and feminist critics >corralled the literary canon into a branch of the social sciences; the >deconstructionist mob tried to yank it into philosophy.
And the economic utility of it u as if thatAs the point u has always
been questioned. When I was an Eng lit undergraduate, the standard joke
was: aWhat do you say when you meet someone with a PhD in English? Big
Mac and large fries please.A That joke, alas, has now become the
organising principle for successive metrics-minded governments to
sideline the arts in favour of STEM.
But, wherever the world may stand on the value of an English Literature >degree, if youAre signed up to one as an undergraduate, youAre
presumably on board with thinking thereAs a point to it. And that means >reading books. Often very long books. Sometimes difficult books. It is
the entire point of reading English literature. You donAt join a
parachute regiment and then decide that, on subsequent consideration,
youAre not wild about the idea of jumping out of planes.
Eng lit, in this respect, is something of a bellwether. If we lose our >ability to read books u properly read them, all the way through u we are >cooked as a civilisation. Books are what made that civilisation in the
first place. They are the best means yet devised of transmitting deep >thinking and rich bodies of knowledge across generations. The internet
is not a substitute. Memes are not a substitute. TikTok videos are not a >substitute. Tweets, fun though they may be to send, are not a
substitute. And generative AI u that Dunning-Kruger regurgitation
machine entirely built on the theft of those texts whose readerships it
is destroying u is certainly no substitute.
It seems to me that most of the ills that plague our public discourse u
the polarisation, the binary thinking, the historical illiteracy, the >narcissism, the privileging of emotion over reason where the only
emotion to be considered is your own, the astounding impunity towards >outright lies u are ills to which the main corrective is reading books.
Only in reading books do you discover that this issue or that is more >complicated than you thought, that propositions of the both-and type
rather than the either-or exist, and that there are truths that it is
not possible to express in a spicy tweet. Books, because (with a few >admitted exceptions, such as On The Road) they are the considered and >painstaking work of many solitary hours and much revision, supply the >antidote to the hot take, the angry riposte and the overconfident
assertion. They are the slow-food movement of the intellectual world.
IAd go further, too. To return to the original topic of English
literature as a subject, I think that fiction and poetry have an >incomparable value. Novels are empathy machines. They ask us (in an age
when the dominant cultural impulse is to demand the admiration of
others) to imagine what it might be like to be somebody else. Failure of
the imagination is a species of moral failure; perhaps the worst. The
first step on the road to atrocity is the inability to see your enemies
as fully human. Cockroaches. Zionists. Orcs. Mussies.
aReading resilienceA? Reading is what gives us resilience. Read some
damn books, kids, or weAre all doomed.
Sam Leith
On Mon, 6 Oct 2025 14:57:53 +0100, Julian <julianlzb87@gmail.com>
wrote:
The question has changed, as one Oxford don noted wanly on social media, >>from aWhat are you reading at university?A to aAre you reading at >>university?A Such is the state of undergraduates entering English >>literature courses these days, brains addled by scrolling on their
mobile phones, that universities are now offering areading resilienceA >>courses to help them tackle the unfamiliar task of reading long, old, >>sometimes difficult books.
ItAs a whole new cause of gloom to discover that even students who have >>actively signed up to study English literature at university are >>struggling to read books
WeAre accustomed, some of us, to feeling gloomy about the sinking >>popularity of Eng lit u once comfortably among the most popular choices
at A-Level and most applied-for at university, now very much not. WeAre >>accustomed, too, to regretting the gobbetisation of how itAs now taught
at GCSE and A-Level, and the drive to teach ever shorter texts in the
face of dwindling teenage concentration spans. But itAs a whole new
cause of gloom to discover that even those students who have actively >>signed up to study English literature at university are struggling to
read books.
There are arguments to be had, heaven knows, about the value and purpose >>of English literature as an academic discipline. They have been being
had since it first came into being. Did acquaintance with the great
works, as F R Leavis (and before him George Eliot and many others) >>thought, improve you morally? Or, when that line started to seem a bit >>airy-fairy, was formal analysis u structural morphology, and all that
jazz u the respectable way to go?
When literary theory swept through the academy in the 1980s and 90s, you >>could see dons latching on to it with a yelp of relief, as if to say: >>weAre doing something intellectually rigorous now, not just reading >>stories and poems and responding to them. Marxist and feminist critics >>corralled the literary canon into a branch of the social sciences; the >>deconstructionist mob tried to yank it into philosophy.
And the economic utility of it u as if thatAs the point u has always
been questioned. When I was an Eng lit undergraduate, the standard joke >>was: aWhat do you say when you meet someone with a PhD in English? Big
Mac and large fries please.A That joke, alas, has now become the >>organising principle for successive metrics-minded governments to
sideline the arts in favour of STEM.
But, wherever the world may stand on the value of an English Literature >>degree, if youAre signed up to one as an undergraduate, youAre
presumably on board with thinking thereAs a point to it. And that means >>reading books. Often very long books. Sometimes difficult books. It is
the entire point of reading English literature. You donAt join a
parachute regiment and then decide that, on subsequent consideration, >>youAre not wild about the idea of jumping out of planes.
Eng lit, in this respect, is something of a bellwether. If we lose our >>ability to read books u properly read them, all the way through u we are >>cooked as a civilisation. Books are what made that civilisation in the >>first place. They are the best means yet devised of transmitting deep >>thinking and rich bodies of knowledge across generations. The internet
is not a substitute. Memes are not a substitute. TikTok videos are not a >>substitute. Tweets, fun though they may be to send, are not a
substitute. And generative AI u that Dunning-Kruger regurgitation
machine entirely built on the theft of those texts whose readerships it
is destroying u is certainly no substitute.
It seems to me that most of the ills that plague our public discourse u >>the polarisation, the binary thinking, the historical illiteracy, the >>narcissism, the privileging of emotion over reason where the only
emotion to be considered is your own, the astounding impunity towards >>outright lies u are ills to which the main corrective is reading books. >>Only in reading books do you discover that this issue or that is more >>complicated than you thought, that propositions of the both-and type >>rather than the either-or exist, and that there are truths that it is
not possible to express in a spicy tweet. Books, because (with a few >>admitted exceptions, such as On The Road) they are the considered and >>painstaking work of many solitary hours and much revision, supply the >>antidote to the hot take, the angry riposte and the overconfident >>assertion. They are the slow-food movement of the intellectual world.
IAd go further, too. To return to the original topic of English
literature as a subject, I think that fiction and poetry have an >>incomparable value. Novels are empathy machines. They ask us (in an age >>when the dominant cultural impulse is to demand the admiration of
others) to imagine what it might be like to be somebody else. Failure of >>the imagination is a species of moral failure; perhaps the worst. The >>first step on the road to atrocity is the inability to see your enemies
as fully human. Cockroaches. Zionists. Orcs. Mussies.
aReading resilienceA? Reading is what gives us resilience. Read some
damn books, kids, or weAre all doomed.
Sam Leith
Excellent. It might also be that moral tension is no longer
compelling. No longer a reason to spend hours sitting in a chair
reading and thinking and feeling.
Shallow self seeking, pleasure seeking is entirely more fun. Gimme a
shooter video game where I can blow things and people to pieces and
yell, hooray, gottem. Or a slightly more adult equivalent: Game of
Thrones, etc.
The trouble with maturity is that it must be hard earned. Otherwise,--
we are consummately childish creatures right up to the end, as happens
when culture does not value maturity, it is not taught rigorously in >education and at home. Then comes the day when we can no longer even
say what is moral. According to whom? What gives you the right to
say what I should do? Babes in the woods. Lost. Lost. Lost.
The question has changed, as one Oxford don noted wanly on social media, from rCyWhat are you reading at university?rCO to rCyAre you reading at university?rCO Such is the state of undergraduates entering English literature courses these days, brains addled by scrolling on their
mobile phones, that universities are now offering rCyreading resiliencerCO courses to help them tackle the unfamiliar task of reading long, old, sometimes difficult books.
ItrCOs a whole new cause of gloom to discover that even students who have actively signed up to study English literature at university are
struggling to read books
WerCOre accustomed, some of us, to feeling gloomy about the sinking popularity of Eng lit rCo once comfortably among the most popular choices
at A-Level and most applied-for at university, now very much not. WerCOre accustomed, too, to regretting the gobbetisation of how itrCOs now taught
at GCSE and A-Level, and the drive to teach ever shorter texts in the
face of dwindling teenage concentration spans. But itrCOs a whole new
cause of gloom to discover that even those students who have actively
signed up to study English literature at university are struggling to
read books.
There are arguments to be had, heaven knows, about the value and purpose
of English literature as an academic discipline. They have been being
had since it first came into being. Did acquaintance with the great
works, as F R Leavis (and before him George Eliot and many others)
thought, improve you morally? Or, when that line started to seem a bit airy-fairy, was formal analysis rCo structural morphology, and all that
jazz rCo the respectable way to go?
When literary theory swept through the academy in the 1980s and 90s, you could see dons latching on to it with a yelp of relief, as if to say: werCOre doing something intellectually rigorous now, not just reading stories and poems and responding to them. Marxist and feminist critics corralled the literary canon into a branch of the social sciences; the deconstructionist mob tried to yank it into philosophy.
And the economic utility of it rCo as if thatrCOs the point rCo has always been questioned. When I was an Eng lit undergraduate, the standard joke
was: rCyWhat do you say when you meet someone with a PhD in English? Big
Mac and large fries please.rCO That joke, alas, has now become the organising principle for successive metrics-minded governments to
sideline the arts in favour of STEM.
But, wherever the world may stand on the value of an English Literature degree, if yourCOre signed up to one as an undergraduate, yourCOre presumably on board with thinking thererCOs a point to it. And that means reading books. Often very long books. Sometimes difficult books. It is
the entire point of reading English literature. You donrCOt join a
parachute regiment and then decide that, on subsequent consideration, yourCOre not wild about the idea of jumping out of planes.
Eng lit, in this respect, is something of a bellwether. If we lose our ability to read books rCo properly read them, all the way through rCo we are cooked as a civilisation. Books are what made that civilisation in the
first place. They are the best means yet devised of transmitting deep thinking and rich bodies of knowledge across generations. The internet
is not a substitute. Memes are not a substitute. TikTok videos are not a substitute. Tweets, fun though they may be to send, are not a
substitute. And generative AI rCo that Dunning-Kruger regurgitation
machine entirely built on the theft of those texts whose readerships it
is destroying rCo is certainly no substitute.
It seems to me that most of the ills that plague our public discourse rCo the polarisation, the binary thinking, the historical illiteracy, the narcissism, the privileging of emotion over reason where the only
emotion to be considered is your own, the astounding impunity towards outright lies rCo are ills to which the main corrective is reading books. Only in reading books do you discover that this issue or that is more complicated than you thought, that propositions of the both-and type
rather than the either-or exist, and that there are truths that it is
not possible to express in a spicy tweet. Books, because (with a few admitted exceptions, such as On The Road) they are the considered and painstaking work of many solitary hours and much revision, supply the antidote to the hot take, the angry riposte and the overconfident
assertion. They are the slow-food movement of the intellectual world.
IrCOd go further, too. To return to the original topic of English
literature as a subject, I think that fiction and poetry have an incomparable value. Novels are empathy machines. They ask us (in an age
when the dominant cultural impulse is to demand the admiration of
others) to imagine what it might be like to be somebody else. Failure of
the imagination is a species of moral failure; perhaps the worst. The
first step on the road to atrocity is the inability to see your enemies
as fully human. Cockroaches. Zionists. Orcs. Mussies.
rCyReading resiliencerCO? Reading is what gives us resilience. Read some damn books, kids, or werCOre all doomed.
Sam Leith