The art of slow reading

During my university days, we had an awfully severe attendance cut off for an Arts course at eighty five percent.
The first semester I made it to eighty seven.
The second, third, fourth and fifth I somehow stayed adrift the eighties without quite the first semesters success of grazing past or upon eighty five. (A small fine had to be paid, but oh well!)
The last semester however, I managed a measly seventy seven, and in all honesty even that was a battle. (Heftier fine and all that but oh well!)
So! This post isn’t to talk about my being a tardy student and all, so do let me get on with it.
The only store on campus that procured edible breakfast sandwiches (named funny things like Chicago and Venitian but they tasted rather delicious! *note to self: remember to eat lots of sandwiches if any of the aforementioned places are visited.) lifted their shutters only when my first hour began. I however, always reached campus a twenty into the first hour and thirty before the second. So although my attendance did see the drop, I suppose I did emerge a winner as compared to my classmates who would never know to what to eat when they travel to Chicago or Venice. I was, I believe, TRULY the winner.
This post isn’t about sandwiches either, so I must not dwell further on them, tempting a notion as that may be.
So thirty minutes alone with a sandwich isn’t really that enthralling. One day I happened to be carrying with me a book I was reading and it kept me and Chicago company. As I began to realize that this was a more often than naught kind of situation, ever since then, I always carried the book. I wouldn’t get much reading done, ten pages tops, but it was a good ten pages, pages where I stopped to deavour C, and pages where I stopped to look around and sigh (I don’t know why I did that kind of stuff!) and pages where I could afford to stop at every other line and consider it in the light of my life. I wasn’t reading to kill time anymore. I was reading to read.
That was when I first understood what it meant to read to read. I always thought it simply meant one must want to read what they are reading but those days told me that it was more of an art. True, I completed only three books in four months but I READ the soul out of those books.
Books aren’t meant to be deavoured. They are meant to be read, each sentence with thought and precision, the same that went into their being written. I decided hence forth that I actually liked being a slow reader. Sure, I may not read a quarter as much as a fast reader, but I get to see the soul of each word I read, and in the process, catch glimpses of my own.
All you quick readers, take the time to do a slow reading this month. I promise, it’ll be well worth it.


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