Why do we read?
The question seems simple, almost naïve, but it carries the weight of centuries of human experience. From the time of cave paintings to scrolls and manuscripts, and now to the digital age, the act of reading has been an intrinsic part of who we are. We read because it is through stories—both real and imagined—that we come to understand the world and ourselves. Reading is as natural as breathing for those who have been touched by it, yet its importance often remains hidden in the corners of our daily lives, where we consume information without reflection.
There is something deeply intimate about reading. When you hold a book in your hands, you are not just holding paper and ink; you are cradling an entire universe. It exists independently of you, yet once you turn that first page, you and the words begin a dance, one that is both deliberate and unconscious. The act of reading pulls you away from the outside world, quiets the chaos around you, and draws you inward. It is a solitary experience, and yet you are never alone. As the characters emerge, they become your companions, your reflections, sometimes even your confessions.
We read to learn, yes, but it is more than just the accumulation of knowledge. A person does not weep because they have learned a historical fact, but they may weep because they have come to know a historical truth through a story. Fiction, with all its artifice, has the unique power to reveal the deeper currents beneath the surface of life. It makes us ache for what we did not know we could ache for, it uncovers the places in our hearts that have grown numb. And so, we read to feel.
There is also something sacred in the way reading slows time. In a world that rushes forward at breakneck speed, we read to rebel against the tyranny of the urgent. When you open a book, the clock no longer holds its dominion over you. You enter into the slow rhythm of words, where thoughts are given space to breathe, to unfurl. It is a quiet resistance, this act of sitting still while the world outside hurtles forward. In this sense, reading is not just an escape, it is a return— to yourself, to stillness, to reflection. You read not to flee from reality, but to make sense of it.
We read to seek solace. Books offer a refuge, a sanctuary where we are allowed to feel deeply, without fear of judgment or consequence. In a novel, we can mourn the loss of a character we’ve only just met or experience the joy of triumph over an imagined adversity. And in doing so, we make space for our own griefs and victories. The safety of fiction allows us to explore emotions we may not yet be ready to face in the real world. It gives us practice, in a way, for when those emotions inevitably arrive in our lives.
There is also a communal aspect to reading, even though it is largely a private activity. When we read, we are not just connecting with the writer, but with a vast network of readers who have come before us. There is something profoundly humbling about knowing that you are not the first to cry over a particular scene, to laugh at a specific joke, to feel the sharp sting of a beautifully written sentence. Through the act of reading, we belong to a lineage of readers. Books pass through time, carried by each generation to the next, linking us in an invisible but indelible chain. We are bound by the shared experience of the story, whether we know it or not.
For many, reading becomes a way to better understand others. It cultivates empathy. As we step into the lives of characters different from ourselves— characters who may live in distant lands or different eras—we learn to see the world through their eyes. It forces us to confront experiences outside our own, to stretch the limits of our understanding. In doing so, we come away with a deeper appreciation for the diversity of the human experience, and our capacity for compassion grows. We read to remind ourselves that the world is vast and that our own perspective is but one of many.
And yet, there is a deeper, almost primal reason why we read. It is because we are, at our core, storytellers. Long before the written word existed, we gathered around fires to tell stories of our ancestors, of the gods, of the stars. These stories shaped our understanding of the world, they provided meaning and connection in an otherwise chaotic existence. Today, we may no longer gather around a fire, but the stories remain, now bound between the covers of books. We read because it is in stories that we find meaning. In the chaos of modern life, stories offer us a map, a guide to navigate the complexity of human existence.
Perhaps that is why, despite the convenience of screens and the brevity of social media, we still turn to books. They demand our attention in a way that nothing else does. They ask us to be present, to give ourselves over fully to the words. And in return, they give us understanding, empathy, and connection—to others, to ourselves, and to the world. So why do we read? Because in stories, we find ourselves, again and again.