When Novels Mattered

In elementary school, I didn’t just read books — I disappeared into them. I was the kind of kid who carried novels everywhere, secretly stuffing fantasy books into my backpack to read at school or anywhere, really. I lived inside those pages. Narnia, Camp Half-Blood, Hogwarts — these weren’t fantasy lands to me. They were real places I visited daily, full of characters who felt more alive than some of the kids at school. I was never bored, never lonely, because there was always magical world waiting behind a flipped page. Now, a huge shelf in my garage holds those books I used to indulge in. Faded, worn, gathering dust. They’ve been sitting there untouched for years. I don’t know exactly when it happened, but once I discovered the internet — the endless scroll of Reels, YouTube commentary, fan edits, and fanfics — books slowly faded from my life. Why commit to a 400-page novel when there’s a never-ending stream of bite-sized entertainment? The algorithm never sleeps, after all, and every recommendation is tailored for me. But still, something’s missing. Nothing online can replicate the feeling of paper under my fingers, the soft crack of a brand new spine, the quiet unfolding of a world without distraction – just me and a character’s thoughts. Social media gives me content. Books gave me the connection. They asked something of me — time, patience, and imagination — and in return, they offered something lasting and memorable. David Brooks writes about the cultural fading of novels, and I feel that loss in my own life, too. But books are not dead as I had believed. They’re just waiting, like they always have been, for all of us to remember what it means to slow down in this constantly moving world.