Why The Written Word Will Never Die

    The hot new theory online is that reading is kaput, put a fork in it…DONE! And therefore, civilization is done, as well. To be fair, the late, great, please read everything he ever wrote, Harold Bloom, first raised these concerns decades ago. Ironically, people are only now hopping on the bandwagon. What do you mean, Boss? Well, let me tell you, my bird- and mouse-eating companion; it goes something like this: The rise of hyper-addictive digital technologies has shattered our attention spans and extinguished our taste for text. Books are disappearing from our culture, and so is our capacity for complex and rational thought…because those are precisely the things that deep reading fosters. We are careening toward a post-literate society, where myth, intuition, faith (yes, I said “faith”), and emotion replace logic, evidence, and science. Trust me…nobody needs to bomb us back to the Stone Age; we have decided to line up and walk there ourselves.

    Even as I type this essay, I continue to be a member of this camp. But, and there is always a “But.” I try to be open-minded to well thought-out arguments. Unsurprisingly, then, stories about the end of reading tend to leave out some current inconvenient data points that I probably did not pay enough attention to. For example, book sales were higher in 2025 than they were in 2019, and only a bit below their high point in the pandemic. Now, this does not mean people are reading them, nor does it tell us if the books they are purchasing are actually worth reading. But let us set those things aside, for now. 

    Independent bookstores are booming, not busting; at least 422 new indie shops opened in the United States last year alone. Even Barnes & Noble is cool again; and the actual data on reading is not as apocalyptic as the headlines may imply. Gallup surveys suggest that some mega-readers (11+ books per year) have become moderate readers (1-5 books per year), but they don’t find any other major trends over the past three decades. Other surveys document similarly moderate declines. For instance, data from the National Endowment for the Arts finds a slight decrease in the percentage of U.S. adults who read any book in 2022 (49%) compared to 2012 (55%). And the American Time Use Survey shows a dip in reading time from 2003 to 2023. Ultimately, the plausibility of the “death of reading” thesis depends on two judgment calls.

    First, do these effects strike you as big or small? Apparently, lots of people (like yours truly) see these numbers and perceive an emergency at most, and/or concern, at the very least. But we should submit every aspiring crisis to this hypothetical: How would we describe the size of the effect if we were measuring a heartening trend instead of a concerning one?

    Imagine that a graph measured cigarette smoking instead of book reading. Would you say that smoking “collapsed” between 2003 and 2023? If we had been spending a billion dollars a year on a big anti-smoking campaign that whole time, would we say it worked? Kind of, I’d say, but most of the time the line doesn’t budge. I wouldn’t be unfurling any “Mission Accomplished” banners, which is why I am not currently unfurling any “Mission Failed” banners, either.

    The second judgment call: Do you expect these trends to continue, plateau, or even reverse? The obvious expectation is that technology will get more distracting every year. And the decline in reading seems to be greater among college students, so we should expect the numbers to continue ticking downward as older bookworms are replaced by younger phoneworms. Those are both reasonable predictions, but two facts make me a little more doubtful.

    Fact #1: There are signs that the digital invasion of our attention is beginning to stall. We seem to have passed peak social media—time spent on the apps has started to slide; App developers are finding it harder and harder to squeeze more attention out of our eyeballs; and it turns out that having your eyeballs squeezed hurts, so people aren’t sticking around for it. It is no wonder that, after paying $1,000 for a new phone, people will then pay an additional $50 for a device that makes their phone less functional.

    Fact #2: Reading has already survived several major incursions, which suggests it is more appealing than we thought. Radio, TV, dial-up, Wi-Fi, TikTok—none of it has been enough to snuff out the human desire to point our pupils at words on paper. Apparently, books are what some hyper-online people call “Lindy”: they’ve lasted a long time, so we should expect them to last even longer.

    It is remarkable, even miraculous, that people who possess the most addictive devices ever invented will occasionally choose to turn those devices off and pick up a book instead. If I was a mad scientist hellbent on stopping people from reading, I’d probably invent something like the iPhone. And after I released my dastardly creation into the world, I’d end up like the Grinch on Christmas morning, dumbfounded that my plan didn’t work: I gave them all the YouTube Shorts they could ever desire and they’re still... reading!?

    Perhaps there are frontiers of digital addiction we have yet to reach. Maybe one day we will all have Neuralinks that beam Instagram Reels directly into our primary visual cortexes, and then reading will really be toast.

    Maybe. But it has proven very difficult to artificially satisfy even the most basic human pleasures. Who wants a birthday cake made with aspartame? Who would rather have a tanning bed than a sunny day? Who prefers to watch bots play chess? You can view high-res images of the Mona Lisa anytime you want, and yet people will still pay to fly to Paris and shove through crowds just to get a glimpse of the real thing.

    I think there is a deep truth here: Human desires are complex and multidimensional, and this makes them both hard to quench and hard to hack. That tinge of discontent that haunts even the happiest people, that bottomless hunger for more even among plenty—those are evolutionary defense mechanisms. If we were easier to please, we wouldn’t have made it this far. We would have gorged ourselves to death as soon as we figured out how to cultivate sugarcane.

    That is why I have come to be wary of the core assumption of the “death of reading” hypothesis. The theory heavily implies that people who would once have been avid readers are now glassy-eyed doomscrollers because that is, in fact, what they always wanted to be. They never appreciated the life of the mind. They were just filling time with great works of literature until TikTok came along.

    I don’t buy this. I have said before in this space: Everyone, even people without liberal arts degrees, knows the difference between the cheap pleasures and the deep pleasures. I believe we are in some way pulled towards great works of art or great literature. No one pats themselves on the back for spending an hour watching mukbang videos; no one touts their screentime like they’re setting a high score; and no one feels proud that their hand instinctively starts groping for their phone whenever there’s a lull in conversation.

    Finishing a great nonfiction book feels like heaving a barbell off your chest. Finishing a great novel feels like leaving an entire nation behind. There are no replacements for these feelings. Videos can titillate, podcasts can inform, but there’s only one way to get that feeling of your brain folds stretching and your soul expanding, and it is to drag your eyes across text.

    That is actually where I agree with the worrywarts of the written word: All serious intellectual work happens on the page, and we shouldn’t pretend otherwise. If you want to contribute to the world of ideas, if you want to entertain and manipulate complex thoughts, you have to read and write.

    According to one theory, that’s why writing originated: to pin facts in place. At first, those facts were things like “Hirin owes Mushin four bushels of wheat, and a camel,” but once you realize that knowledge can be hardened and preserved by encoding it in little squiggles, you unlock a whole new realm of logic and reasoning. That doesn’t mean every piece of prose is wonderful, just that it can be. And when it reaches those heights, it commands a power that nothing else can possess.

    I didn’t always believe this. I was persuaded on this point recently when I read an interview with audio guru, Julia Barton, who was writing a book about the history of radio. The interviewer thought that was funny—shouldn’t the history of radio be told as a podcast?

    “No,” she said, “because in the long run, books are all that matter. Podcasts, films, and TikToks are good at attracting ears and eyes, but in the realm of ideas, they punch below their weight. Thoughts only stick around when you print them out and bind them in cardboard.”

    I think Barton’s thesis is right. At the center of every long-lived movement, you will always find a book. Every major religion has its holy text, of course, but there is also no communism without the Communist Manifesto, no environmentalism without Silent Spring, no American Revolution without Common Sense. This remains true even in our supposed post-literate meltdown.

    I know that what we used to call “social media” is now just television you watch on your phone. I know that people want to spend their leisure time watching strangers apply makeup, assemble salads, and repair dishwashers. I know they want to see this guy dancing in his dirty bathroom and they want to watch Mr. Beast bury himself alive. These are their preferences, and woe to anyone like me who tries to show them anything else, especially—the heavens forfend—the written word!

    But I also know that some, if not most, humans have a hunger that no video can satisfy. Even in the midst of infinite addictive entertainment, some people still want to read. A lot of people, in fact. Five-thousand years after the Sumerians started scratching cuneiform into clay, and 600 years after Gutenberg started pressing inky blocks onto paper…text is still king. Long may it reign! 

Write to Peter: magtour@icloud.com