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For the 10th year in a row, my New Year’s resolution is to read more books. Ideally, as I tend to tell myself in these first protean weeks of January, 2026 will be remembered for languorous evenings on the sofa, tearing through the inventory of novels that clutter the modest capacity of the shelves in my living room, perhaps with a glass of scotch placed on a coaster. I delight in the fantasy – I dream of finally being able to open up A Confederation of Dunces, or eliminate the last two entries from the Broken Earth trilogy, or making time for Patti Smith’s memoir that I bought over a decade ago. If I feel really good, I’ll consider aiming even higher. Tolstoy? Pynchon? I mean, there’s also this copy of The Pale King that has been steadily yellowing on my coffee table for some time now.
And yet, I already know how this saga will end. The year will end with a tiny number of new entries in my Goodreads, hopelessly incongruous compared to the scale of my bibliophile ambitions. Ask me why I never read as much as I want to, and I might gesture toward the well-known afflictions of modernity: screen time, addictive algorithms, frayed attention spans. But one of my fundamental problems with literature is much more prosaic. In fact, I think it’s much more common than anyone would like to admit. Why is it that no matter what I do, I can never feel comfortable reading a book?
Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about. This is a species-wide affliction. The first published novel in history is widely considered to be The Tale of Genji, a courtly drama written at the end of the 11th century by the Japanese noblewoman Murasaki Shikibu. A millennium after its wonderfully revolutionary invention, humanity has not yet designed an ergonomic way of consuming the written word. Like you, I lay on my back, holding a novel aloft, until my arms became strained, flailing, and unable to maintain balance. I also sat in an armchair, opening the book on my lap, until the harsh angle stiffened my neck and reinforced the horrible truth that furniture was never meant to support the literary necessity of looking down. Of course, you always have the option of rolling onto your stomach, allowing your elbows to sink into the mattress, carpet or sofa cushions. This works for a while, until it becomes clear that your body is situated on a tedious, low-impact plank, while, in the pages below, Raskolnikov swings his ax and kills everyone in sight.
I go through all these postures, again and again, in the hope of finally deciphering the code, unlocking the sublime zen of the novel, the legendary joys of reading. When I called my friends and colleagues to see if they were concerned about my plight, I quickly realized that we are all languishing on this futile journey. Bryan Lowder, associate editor of Slate, recalled that while leafing through an extremely heavy bound tome containing the collected information Land Sea novels, he was obliged to stack three pillows against his headboard and another on his abdomen in order to remain healthy while retracing the adventures of Epervier. My friend Laura Grasso, costume designer and woman who recently finished The Karamazov brothers– has developed a complex anthropometric pattern in which she supports her entire body on the padded slope of a sofa armrest, with the book delicately balanced within the field of her eyes. (“I try to go all the way diagonally,” she says. “It’s by far the most optimal approach.”) Others have developed a Stockholm syndrome-like relationship with the agony of reading, interpreting the pain as a sign of virtue. Tony Ho Tran, editor-in-chief of Slate, said he believes he “must be a little uncomfortable” to concentrate on his writing. “Give me a weird wooden dining chair,” he proclaimed. “Give me a plastic seat on the train while I ride.”
Surely it doesn’t have to be that way, right? Shouldn’t we, as a species, have evolved to possess some sort of natural lumbar support – or toning calluses – to aid us in the centuries-old tradition of reading words printed on paper? Could it be that Moses, descending from Mount Sinai with stone tablets consecrated by God himself, had a sore neck while deciphering the Ten Commandments? Well, according to Cleveland Clinic physical therapist Ryan Steiner, the answer is yes. It turns out that reading forces the body into a completely unnatural shape. None of us can do anything.
“Honestly, we’re not supposed to stay in one position, even if it’s a comfortable position, for an extended period of time,” Steiner said. “You should change your position often when reading. I recommend getting up and moving around from time to time.”
Steiner happily explained physics to me. Throughout our nervous system are microscopic electrical sensors called “mechanoreceptors.” These nerves alert our body to how we are stretching, compressing, or adding tension to our soft tissues. This is true if you’re doing deadlifts, and also true if you’re holding a book in front of your face. “After a while, these receptors send a message to your brain like, ‘Hey, there’s something going on here, this doesn’t seem natural, you need to take action,'” Steiner said. This is when we adjust our dimensions to find a more comfortable position, repeating the circuit over and over as long as we have a book in our hands. Perhaps you find it baffling that a novel can put the same strain on our bodies as, say, a bag of concrete, but Steiner is quick to remind me that given enough time, just about Nothing can get heavy.
“A little force can still make a big difference. If you hold something relatively light, like a 3-pound weight, at your side, you could do it for hours. But if you hold it in front of your face? You might not be able to do it in a minute.”
For what it’s worth, technology’s strengths are growing to solve the reading problem. We’ve all heard of book stands, which can be installed in bed or in the bath, allowing hands to be occupied with a chilled pinot noir while contemplating a gooey romance novel. But those who prefer to read on tablets have gone much further. I contacted Chelsea Stone, who works for CNN, and who recently reviewed a truly revolutionary contraption that attached her e-reader to a modular silicone mount. She winched the crane’s neck onto her mattress, letting the tablet float gracefully before her eyes as she lay in bed. To turn the pages, Stone used a Bluetooth remote control. His hands never needed to come out of the covers. It was an airtight cocoon of literary happiness, reminiscent of the mobile deck chairs used by the sedentary refugees of Wall-E. Stone had made the human limit obsolete – by banishing those damn mechanoreceptors – once and for all.
“I can’t tell you how many times I’ve dozed off with a book in my hands only to be woken up by a tap to the forehead,” Stone said. “The stand gives me the freedom to read in any position I want at the moment.”
And yet Stone, an avid bibliophile, tells me she still enjoys reading books the old-fashioned way. I can understand why. A stand to hold your Kindle may be physically prudent, but it seems spiritually diminishing to me. Ultimately, I enjoy reading for the many accoutrements of literature; the way ritual can brighten an ordinary day. Think about accidentally discovering an ideal spot – a café, a park, a beach – ready to accommodate the novel you carry in your backpack. Time stops and the cracks in your imagination open. My hip flexors cry out for mercy as I lie on my side, calming my mind. We have been reading books for a thousand years. Obviously it must be worth it pain.
Source | domain slate.com
