On Reading Slowly

I used to pride myself on how many books I could finish in a month. Speed-reading techniques, skimming, audiobooks at 2x. The goal was volume. More pages, more titles, more bragging rights.

Then I realized I couldn’t remember most of what I’d read.

This essay is about what changed. Not a technique or a hack—just a shift in how I approach the act of reading. Slower, yes. But also deeper. The kind of reading that leaves marks.

The Illusion of Progress

Speed-reading sells a promise: consume more, learn more, become more. The logic seems sound. If you read twice as fast, you read twice as many books. Simple math.

Except reading isn’t about consumption. It’s about engagement. When you race through a text, you’re not engaging with it. You’re scanning. Your eyes move, your brain processes words, but the ideas don’t settle. They pass through like commuters through a train station—present for a moment, then gone.

I noticed this most with philosophy and literary fiction. I’d finish a dense chapter, close the book, and realize I had no idea what the author was actually arguing. I’d retained a vague feeling, maybe a few phrases. But the structure, the nuance, the thinking—none of it had stuck.

What Slow Reading Looks Like

I don’t mean reading at a snail’s pace. I mean reading without the pressure to finish. Pausing when something resonates. Re-reading a paragraph that demands it. Underlining. Making notes in the margin. Sometimes putting the book down and staring at the ceiling.

The first change was practical: I stopped setting reading goals. No “52 books this year.” No guilt about the stack on my nightstand. I read what I’m drawn to, and I take as long as it takes.

The second change was attitudinal. I stopped treating books as items to check off. I started treating them as conversations. When you’re in a conversation, you don’t rush to the end. You listen. You respond. You sit with what the other person said.

The Trade-off

I read fewer books now. Significantly fewer. That used to bother me. It doesn’t anymore.

What I’ve gained is retention. I can recall arguments from essays I read years ago. I can quote passages. More importantly, I can use what I’ve read. The ideas have become part of my thinking, not just a list of titles I’ve consumed.

There’s a place for fast reading. News, reports, emails. But for the kind of writing that aims to change how you think—essays, philosophy, great fiction—slow is the only way that works.

A Closing Thought

Montaigne wrote that we should read with our own judgment, not the author’s. That takes time. You can’t judge what you haven’t fully absorbed. You can’t disagree with what you’ve already forgotten.

So read slowly. Let the words do their work. The books will still be there tomorrow.