On Reading
Or how the 3 Laws of Robotics expanded my world..
“If you are going to get anywhere in life, you have to read a lot of books.”
— Roald Dahl
I like reading.
As far back as I can remember, I’ve always been a reader. Growing up in Oregon, I was privileged to visit the Salem Public Library every Saturday.
It was a grand concrete edifice nestled in the heart of downtown, and for a young boy who struggled with asthma and terrible allergies, it was the closest thing I had to a playground.
The bonus, of course, was that I had permission to ride the bus to and from the library by myself—with a transfer no less—as long as I was home before dark.
But if I’m being honest, the library wasn’t just my playground. It was also my sanctuary.
At age 12, it became a place of escape—from name-calling, from the subtle self-hatred that comes with realizing you’re somehow different.
It was the mid-80s, and I was a brown kid in an overwhelmingly white state. I remember my mother telling me, “You’re not allowed to look like the other kids, with holes in their jeans and dirty shoes. You always have to look your best because they will judge you.”
Even now, 40 years later, her words still shape—and haunt—me.
I was called wetback. I was called ‘spic.’
And once people found out I was from Panama, I was called “pineapple face”—a nod to Noriega and a lazy insult thrown at me, a kid just trying to find his place.
It was a tough time.
And so, I read.
Specifically, science fiction.
Even then, I understood what sci-fi offered:
An escape.
To new worlds.
New people.
New adventures.
New ways of being.
And maybe, even the hope that somewhere out among the stars, someone like me might be seen. Respected. Valued.
I’m fairly sure that during my adolescence I read every book by Isaac Asimov the library owned. Then it was Heinlein. Then Bradbury.
Eventually, I branched out beyond sci-fi.
I was swept into the frontier with James Fenimore Cooper and watched the fall of Troy through Homer’s eyes.
As I grew, my tastes expanded.
But I never stopped reading.
And yet now, reading—reading good books—is seen by many as a chore.
An unnecessary one at that.
It says something that so many of the most popular films and TV shows of the past 10 to 15 years are based on comic books—years of intricate storytelling boiled down into two hours of CGI spectacle.
Honestly, I think we’ve lost the ability to just read because we’ve lost the ability to sit still and pay attention to just one thing, be it a loved one or a friend.
As Blaise Pascal wrote, “All of humanity’s problems stem from man’s inability to sit quietly in a room alone.”
And while you’re not alone with a book, it does demand your focus.
A good book takes time.
To be digested.
To be taken in.
These days, it’s easier—but far less fulfilling—to swipe through endless video clips than to open something that begins with “Chapter One.”
So how do we become readers?
How do we put down the phone and pick up a book?
It starts with finding the right one.
Sure, you can browse the New York Times bestseller list.
You can check Goodreads.
You can grab whatever Oprah or Reese or Barack are recommending this month.
But honestly? The best way to find a great book is to ask a close friend, “What are you reading?”
The South African children’s author Chris Riddell once said, “A good book is an empathy engine.”
By sharing the books we love with the people we love, we grow in understanding.
We see what excites them.
What saddens them.
What makes them think.
Novelist Walter Mosley put it this way: “A man’s bookcase will tell you everything you’ll ever need to know about him.”
It’s true—bookshelves speak.
They point clearly to what matters most to us.
No one keeps a book that stinks.
And once you’ve found a book worth reading, take pen or pencil in hand—and mark it up.
Yes, a pencil. Or a pen.
I know, I know.
You might say, “But I read on my Kindle.” Or, “I like using my phone.”
And I get that. I really do.
But there’s something about holding a book in your hands—pencil at the ready—underlining phrases that hit home.
This is the best way to read.
To engage.
To dog-ear pages.
To write in the margins.
To copy lines into memory journals.
To let someone else’s insights seep into your long-term memory.
Why?
Because the world is hard. And it makes us harder.
Author John Eldredge puts it this way: “We burn through so much of our emotional, mental, and spiritual energy simply through worry, anger, being generally unsettled, and by taking in too much of the overwhelming news of the world.”
Reading doesn’t just stir the imagination—it slows us down.
It gives us time.
It gives us ourselves back.
To quote Mosley again:
“I’m not saying that you have to be a reader to save your soul in the modern world. I’m saying it helps.”
And truly, couldn’t we all use a bit more of that?