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The Deep Space of Digital Reading

20 January 2016

From Nautilus:

In A History of Reading, the Canadian novelist and essayist Alberto Manguel describes a remarkable transformation of human consciousness, which took place around the 10th century A.D.: the advent of silent reading. Human beings have been reading for thousands of years, but in antiquity, the normal thing was to read aloud. When Augustine (the future St. Augustine) went to see his teacher, Ambrose, in Milan, in 384 A.D., he was stunned to see him looking at a book and not saying anything. With the advent of silent reading, Manguel writes,

… the reader was at last able to establish an unrestricted relationship with the book and the words. The words no longer needed to occupy the time required to pronounce them. They could exist in interior space, rushing on or barely begun, fully deciphered or only half-said, while the reader’s thoughts inspected them at leisure, drawing new notions from them, allowing comparisons from memory or from other books left open for simultaneous perusal.

To read silently is to free your mind to reflect, to remember, to question and compare. The cognitive scientist Maryanne Wolf calls this freedom “the secret gift of time to think”: When the reading brain becomes able to process written symbols automatically, the thinking brain, the I, has time to go beyond those symbols, to develop itself and the culture in which it lives.

. . . .

A thousand years later, critics fear that digital technology has put this gift in peril. The Internet’s flood of information, together with the distractions of social media, threaten to overwhelm the interior space of reading, stranding us in what the journalist Nicholas Carr has called “the shallows,” a frenzied flitting from one fact to the next. In Carr’s view, the “endless, mesmerizing buzz” of the Internet imperils our very being: “One of the greatest dangers we face,” he writes, “as we automate the work of our minds, as we cede control over the flow of our thoughts and memories to a powerful electronic system, is … a slow erosion of our humanness and our humanity.”

There’s no question that digital technology presents challenges to the reading brain, but, seen from a historical perspective, these look like differences of degree, rather than of kind. To the extent that digital reading represents something new, its potential cuts both ways. Done badly (which is to say, done cynically), the Internet reduces us to mindless clickers, racing numbly to the bottom of a bottomless feed; but done well, it has the potential to expand and augment the very contemplative space that we have prized in ourselves ever since we learned to read without moving our lips.

The fear of technology is not new. In the fifth century B.C., Socrates worried that writing would weaken human memory, and stifle judgment. In fact, as Wolf notes in her 2007 book Proust and the Squid: The Story and Science of the Reading Brain, the opposite happened: Faced with the written page, the reader’s brain develops new capacities. The visual cortex forms networks of cells that are capable of recognizing letterforms almost instantaneously; increasingly efficient pathways connect these networks to the phonological and semantic areas of the cortex, freeing up other parts of the brain to put the words we read into sentences, stories, views of the world. We may not keep the Iliadin our heads any longer, but we’re exquisitely capable of reflecting on it, comparing it to other stories we know, and forming conclusions about human beings ancient and modern.

Link to the rest at Nautilus

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11 Comments to “The Deep Space of Digital Reading”

  1. Do people not know that, much like a geographic space, the “internet” is a place one can avoid? Like, if you don’t want distractions, don’t fire up your browser (if you’re on a desktop) or put your device in airplane or do-not-disturb mode (on a mobile).

    Like, sure, the internet is a flood of information. So hey, maybe don’t wade into it. Stay dry for a bit.

    I will note this is one of the reasons I prefer reading on my Paperwhite, though. Reading is pretty much all it’s good for, which means I’m less tempted to pop out of the app. Same thing with writing longhand, lately. Slower, perhaps, but I know my brain likes all the information and easily gives into temptation, I try to ensure there’s less of it around.

  2. Dead horse. Still being beaten. Ho hum.

  3. Oh all these poor people that can’t read because of all of the distractions …

    (typing this with Meat Loaf going to better drown out the TV in the other room — a sewing show gal with a voice like nails on the old chalkboard …)

  4. The first few paragraphs were the only interesting part to me. I’d never read any mention of it before.

    • Same. I’d read that in ancient times it was considered suspect to pray silently. It didn’t occur to me that people didn’t read silently, either. I may track down this book.

  5. I wonder if reading aloud had to do with the fact that, since most people couldn’t read and since there was no TV, radio, etc, it would be selfish to keep reading to oneself.

    Surely it hasn’t been all that long (a little over a century?) since a primary form of entertainment at night was sitting around, whittling, darning and embroidering, while each person took turns reading aloud the latest novel by Dickens, Austen or whoever.

    • I remember one excursion at University which meant two days of traveling in a small bus one way. The best entertainment was provided by people taking turns reading a novel out loud.

      (Forgot what it was, though. I was in the front reading the map. Yep, that long ago.)

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