Why We Should Read Hard Books Part One Well Read Mom

Words, be they written or spoken, texted or tweeted, are under intense scrutiny these days. Publicly spoken or written words are met with criticism, anger, and even a rush to censor and punish the person who said them. We bristle, we shake our heads, and perhaps we even protest such unfortunate myopia, especially when we agree with the censored speech. Why, then, in certain Catholic and Christian circles, is the propriety of reading words that come at us from the other direction, from voices that challenge us or clash outright with our sense of... Can it be worthwhile, particularly in the case of literature, to read about a depraved character, or to consider the ideas of an author whose life was less than exemplary? Or must we, on our pilgrim journey towards holiness, simply avoid such literary topics as scandalous stumbling blocks?

If our instinctive response to the “cancel culture” is disapproval, and if we think that people who steadily challenge the reigning, secular socio-cultural mentality should be allowed to write and speak, so should we... We cannot, in good conscience, enact our own version of “Christian cancel-culture” and remain consistent. Let us, then, consider the propriety and even the necessity of the thoughtful reading of literature that stretches us beyond our comfort zone. Such literature may include objectionable elements and may be written by authors whose worldview, behavior, or experiences may diverge from what is virtuous and moral. Arguably, however, careful readers must encounter such content or risk living in prideful isolation, without the sympathetic understanding of diverse human experiences that facilitates and enables true charity. Pope St.

John Paul II, in his Letter to Artists, pointed out some of the key dynamics at work in art or literature that focuses the reader on the darker side of things: Even beyond its typically religious expressions, true art has a close affinity with the world of faith, so that, even in situations where culture and the Church are far apart, art remains a kind... True art, in this estimation, can serve as a valuable, two-way bridge that enables communication between a culture and a Church that can at times seem worlds apart. But at the core of every soul are regions both resplendent and shadowed, and art has the potential to reveal these, and to draw back the veil on our oft-hidden commonalities. In particular, literary art is able to “give voice” to the cry of each human heart for redemption, whether explicitly acknowledged or not. In characters who disgust or repel us, we find a mediated way to confront and understand the struggles of others.

This has the potential to set us on a journey to deeper empathy with others—perhaps before we stumble upon such struggles in the fleeting encounters of day-to-day life. Literature gives us more space for contemplation, and more time to consider how we ought to respond with the mercy of Christ in particularly difficult situations. This provides a sort of literary, along-the-way education in humanity, which is not the sole purpose of reading literature, but certainly a key benefit. It is crucial, for the purposes of both charity and evangelization, for us all to be educated deeply in what it is to be human. “The educational method with the greatest capacity for good is not the one that flees from reality in order to affirm what is good separately, but rather the one that lives by advocating for... Sometimes, in literature, this may mean witnessing the terrible reality of a life lived without Christ—not to glorify sin, but to illuminate our deepest need for salvation.

This side of heaven, there will always be a rift between the world and the Christian ideal. Literature reveals the paradoxical tension of the world to us: we live in a world that is both a “vale of tears” and a wellspring of God’s graces, which are conveyed, at times, through... We strive, love, and suffer in this world, yet always long for heaven: while “in” the world, but not “of” it, we must, like the saints, enter into its battered beauty, knowing that God’s... Another important element to notice in St. John Paul II’s Letter to Artists is that he defends the centrality of not just any art, but true art. There are mountains of books that are not true art: some books serve only as distractions to pass the time, their details forgotten once the plot has spun to its conclusion; other books only...

None of these are true art. This, of course, begs the question of how a legitimately curious reader, cautiously opening the door to challenging books, can know how to discern the difference between literature that is worthwhile—that is “true art”... In today’s context it can be difficult to know where to begin. Just as a constant diet of chicken nuggets desensitizes the tongue to the nuances of fresh and more complex foods, a constant mental diet of social media, blogs, and viral sound bites desensitizes the... This can lead to the tendency to err too much on the side of caution, avoiding any literature that presents fraught topics or seems dauntingly complex. The term “agents of control” likely evokes the great dystopian image of Big Brother, the classic literary symbol of totalitarianism, historically realized to a significant degree in the Soviet Union.

The regime exercised a monopoly of power from its command economy to its state-run education and media to its vast propaganda machine—all of which aimed to control the horizon of meaning. However gripping it might have been, this is not the specter that haunts us now. We won the Cold War, after all. The Iron Curtain fell, the Berlin Wall crumbled. And yet, there is a widespread sense of insecurity about our freedom, about the omnipresence of things that control us, not from a single center but from multiple loci. Once upon a time, people gathered to eat their meals; they sat around a table facing each other and gave thanks to God for the food which they smelled, touched, and tasted; they looked...

In stark contrast, people are now prone to eating alone in front of the computer, television set, cell phone, or steering wheel; they frequently forget to give thanks to God for the food which... “Sex” and “gender” are not facts of nature just lying there waiting to be discovered by the neutral rationality of science. And the distinction between a merely biological “sex” and a social or psychological “gender” is not a scientific distinction. It is not the discovery of detached empirical observation or the result of experimental testing but is an a priori interpretive lens for processing empirical and experimental data whose conceptual origins lie elsewhere... “Good books are over your head; they would not be good for you if they were not. And books that are over your head weary you unless you can reach up to them and pull yourself up their level.” — Mortimer Adler

I’ve just finished reading The Master and His Emissary by Iain McGilchrist. It took 10x longer than expected. What slowed me down was the numerous moments I sat back in awe at what I’d just read on the page (it’s profound—you should read it). But also the fact that it’s not an easy read. It’s certainly not something you can leisurely scan through and gain an understanding of the concepts. Thanks for reading Sam Matla!

Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. And tt’s been a good reminder of the value of difficult books. There’s something you get from reading hard books that you don’t get from easy books. And that something is what I want to explore in this post. There’s value in learning to read hard books. Perhaps the best way to explain this is with a ridiculous fitness metaphor.

Sidenote. Yesterday, I talked about the hedonic treadmill of reading. I must subconsciously be trying to get ready for my summer bikini body. I love going to the gym. I’m a powerlifter, which is a fancy term for a “person who likes to lift heavy stuff.” The program is simple; consistently try to increase how much I can lift in the squat, bench... Today, I had an insightful gym session.

I squatted close to 500 pounds, so it was a very heavy workout. I don’t like talking about this side of my life because it feels boastful, but there’s a point to be made which is that heavy weights act differently from light ones. I struggle to have good form when there’s no weight on the bar. In a squat, you want that bar to go straight down and then back up in a perfect, vertical line. If you watch the lifter from the side, the end of that barbell shouldn’t zig-zag forward or backward at all. If there is movement, then the weight on your back becomes much heavier since it’s extended away from your center of gravity.

Think of holding a bowling ball with your arms outstretched, rather than close to your chest. The position changes how heavy it feels. In our modern era of instant information and bite-sized entertainment, reading intellectually challenging material can seem like an unnecessary burden. Why struggle through a dense classic novel, a difficult philosophical treatise, or an intricate historical account when easier, more accessible options are available? However, those who embrace the challenge of “hard books” often find their intellectual lives enriched in ways that lighter reading simply cannot provide. In the context of classical education, where the cultivation of wisdom and virtue is paramount, reading hard books is not just beneficial — it is essential.

Reading a difficult text requires patience, focus, and perseverance. When a book is challenging, the reader cannot simply coast through it in a passive way. Instead, he or she must engage actively, rereading passages, looking up words, and considering complex ideas. This process strengthens the mind much like physical exercise strengthens the body. In an age where attention spans are shrinking, the discipline developed through reading demanding works is invaluable. A student who has struggled through The Republic by Plato, The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne, or The Canterbury Tales by Geoffrey Chaucer will develop the ability to sustain deep thought.

This intellectual stamina prepares individuals for rigorous study in any discipline, whether in law, medicine, theology, or philosophy. Even more importantly, it enables them to engage with the weighty questions of life with clarity and insight. Many of the greatest works of literature, philosophy, and theology do not provide easy answers. Instead, they invite the reader into a serious intellectual and moral struggle. Consider Augustine’s Confessions, where the author wrestles with questions of sin, grace, and divine providence. Or regard Shakespeare’s Hamlet, which raises profound questions about justice, revenge, and the meaning of existence.

These works challenge us not just to understand but to engage, to debate, and to form our own reasoned conclusions. By reading hard books, we learn that truth is not always simple. Life’s most significant questions — What is justice? What is virtue? What is the good life? — are not easily answered.

Grappling with these texts prepares us for the complexity of real-world ethical and philosophical dilemmas. By JD Head, Upper School Literature Teacher, Rockbridge Academy Reprinted with permission Paradise Lost. The first three times that I attempted to read this book on my own, I failed, never making it out of book 2. I was a literature teacher with several years of experience and at the beginning of my happy career at Rockbridge on my third failed attempt. It’s a hard book.

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