Reading Slowly

I used to think the goal of reading was to finish the book.

The faster I reached the last page, the more I felt I had accomplished something.

Then I started reading books that refused to let me continue.

Not because they were difficult.

Because they made me stop.

Sometimes a single sentence was enough.

I’d read it once.

Then again.

I’d close the book and stare out of the window for a while.

The reading had stopped, but something else had begun.

I’ve learned that the books I love most aren’t the ones I read quickly.

They’re the ones that interrupt me.

They ask questions I wasn’t expecting.

They make me remember something I’d forgotten.

They quietly change the way I look at an ordinary tree, a conversation, or even myself.

It’s a strange feeling.

You begin reading someone else’s words, and somewhere along the way they become your own thoughts.

There are days when I only read a few pages.

Years ago, I would have called that slow.

Now I call it enough.

Some books are meant to be consumed.

Others are meant to be lived with.

I’ve stopped measuring my reading by how many pages I finish.

Instead, I ask myself a different question.

Did I notice something today that I couldn’t see yesterday?

If the answer is yes, then I’ve read enough.