I had arrived in Oxford as a visiting student eager to read Philosophy. But, after a few months here, I came down with a disease: I had lost my ability to read anything for leisure. Anything.
This loss of interest in reading for fun became omnipresent. I first recognised the symptoms as I stood amongst the bookshelves at Blackwell’s, struggling to find a suitable book to enjoy during the break. I needed a distraction from my reading lists and my degree, yet I went blank in front of the wall adorned with flashy titles and vibrant covers. I could not find a single book to read.
Before Oxford, I was a typical bookworm. I would read everything within my sight: the short commercial pieces on the billboard; the boring ‘how-to-use’ stickers behind my shampoo bottle; the cover of a random magazine; and any ‘fun story’ that was actually not funny at all in the outdated newspaper from five years ago. I explored every genre of book, from philosophical tomes to romance novels. There was one time that I even composed an essay defending the beauty of romance novels and read it aloud in class to debate with my Literature teacher. For me, every book is worth our love, attention, and criticism, including the most undervalued of genres—romance. Books such as Twilight carry their weight and serve their audience, something echoed in The Blue’s recent article on romance and eternal girlhood. I love sentences and words in any form, and am utterly enamoured with any book that shares my world.
Little did I know that this love would fall apart upon my arrival at Oxford.
Ever since Oxford, I have felt judgmental and fussy about selecting books. I turn down romance novels because I find them too childish and dreamy. I refuse to read philosophy-related books because it was so close to my study, so it felt like not taking a break. I can’t imagine reading any science book, because they bore me terribly.
Moreover, the long, gruelling hours of reading for tutorials and seminars have given me a terrible habit for brain-rotting social media; I have scrolled more than ever. Right after the tutorial essay submission, as a reward for completing my weekly readings, or even socially, in the middle of an awkward encounter at a formal event, I unlock my phone and scroll. It’s not just me; other Oxford students have also noted this phenomenon, namely the slow death of our attention spans.
It became clear to me: I had come down with the highly infectious ‘Inability to Read for Leisure’.
I knew it did not originate solely from Oxford, and I couldn’t blame the university for everything. Much of it came from me. I have turned to short-form content and visual formats instead of reading, and must accept the implications. The books that used to be my great best friends and brought me to Oxford now hate me.
I miss the way books used to feel. The weight of a novel in my hand on a rainy Sunday. The joy of finishing a sentence and rereading it just for the pleasure of the cadence. I miss the companionship of characters I used to meet between pages. So I’ve decided, I want that part of me back.
Over the break, I prescribed myself a book list to kick-start my immune system.
Three pills were needed: my favourite book of all time, a cheesy book, and a classic. Why? It is a piece of cake to re-read and re-enjoy what you love. A kitschy, typical BookTok book would be an easy read. Finally, I kept the best for last. The cherry on top was a challenging read, but a fruitful one.
My first choice was When Breath Becomes Air by Paul Kalanithi. I read this book ages ago as a young girl in Year 7. However, as I grew older, the book resonated with me in a different way. My understanding of morality and the fear of death became clearer, which made me feel more deeply when reading such an emotional piece. At the end of the book, just as I had seven years ago, I cried. When I was younger, I cried over the lives in the book and my fear of death, but now, I cried for more people and felt scared of death because I had so many more purposes to live for beneath the tears.
Next, I read Almost French by Sarah Turnbull. I chose this one because its cheesy title stood out in the Travel Writing section at Blackwell’s. I was sure there’d be a French guy who entices a foreign girl with no knowledge of the French language to come to France. As it turned out, I was correct about these points: 1, there was a French guy; and 2, the book was indeed so cheesy. I didn’t enjoy the book as much because, from the perspective of someone who has learned French and visited France, Turnbull’s portrayal of the country was filled with judgments and generalisations that were not always accurate. At least better than Emily in Paris.
Lastly, the classic, 1984 by George Orwell. Although my friends had highly recommended it when I arrived in the United States for college, I had procrastinated reading it for quite some time. And so I read it during my lengthy flight from Oxford to Vietnam; for over 20 hours, I alternated between napping, reading, and sampling the airline’s food. 1984 took me on a journey of highs and lows, filled with doubt and suspicion. It was the most rewarding long-haul flight I have ever had.
Each book I included in my special regimen taught me something. When Breath Becomes Air reminded me to keep reading and re-reading great books. Those books could never grow old, and you’re never truly finished with them. For its faults, Almost French nevertheless resonated with my experiences of studying abroad. It touched my yearning sense of belonging as an international student so much that I saw myself in the journalist’s main character, not in Paris but in Oxford. However, it also reminded me of how quickly cultural differences can lead to stereotypes. Finally, 1984 was not as difficult a read as one might think, yet it was not easy either. It represented the intersection of my two degrees in Linguistics and Philosophy: How easily we are manipulated by language? What is truthful and what is not? It taught me why one should keep reading new books, to access new worlds, knowledge, and experiences.
When I arrived at Tan Son Nhat airport in Ho Chi Minh City with the 1984 folded and my glasses taken off, I realised that I had cured myself of my inability to read for leisure.