September 2026 . . . .

“It’s Getting Late”

I recently attempted to read an article in a magazine about the post-literate world, sent to me as an e-mail link by a friend. There was a teaser paragraph or two, and then the pay­wall went up and I was instructed to subscribe to said journal to see the rest of the article. Thwarted, I smiled and closed the window and went back to checking my e-mail. Feels ironic, I thought. Like they don’t want me to read what they’ve published.


In any other period in human history, that sharing would have been not only possible, but encouraged. Someone would buy a copy of a periodical from a news­stand at the train station, see something interesting and leave it on the seat, open, when they got to their stop. Or take it home and hand it to a family member with enthusiasm. Hey, check this out. Someone had a typeset broadsheet shoved in front of them, tucked it in their coat, brought it home to give to the aunt who could read and asked what it said. Monks hand-copying manuscripts. Scholars reading scrolls at the library. A fellow on the way home from the agora sees graffiti on the wall and pokes at their friend. Iulius! What news?


Part of me wants to remind that magazine that they are on their way out in the very post-literate world they saw fit to publish a tid­bit about and then only show a teaser. Although I understand the financial aspect of this, I think that wanting to monetize everything, even if only to remain extant, will be the death of them. And then my use of the word “remind” assumes that they have given any thought to this situation — that readership is down. Readership of anything.


Another part of me wants to just stay out of it, sit in my chair and read while the reading is good. Because maybe I’m wrong. Maybe this is mid-transition of a very fruitful transition to the post-literate world.


Questions: If some people can but don’t want to read, or don’t read because they cannot read, not at all the same thing, who am I to try and force it on them? Should we insist that they get with the program? And if some publishing organs want you to read, but make it unaffordable or merely one step of difficulty too far, and others want you to read but don’t want to pay writers and only provide slop, and others simply can’t be heard over all of the noise so there’s nothing left that’s good to read, well . . . really, who am I to tilt at that windmill?


It seems we are in the not-particularly deep weeds here. What are my proof-points, that no one reads anymore? And, conversely, that there will always be a need for writers?


Good question. I don’t know — I couldn’t see the article.


Maybe I should have paid to see it. Ahem.


Don’t you think writers deserve to be paid?


Yes. Next!


No more questions for now, your honor.


We do have a problem. We just don’t know what exactly it is, and therefore if it is real and if it can be fixed. I recently looked up what went wrong with a particular house­plant of mine. One that was, in a word, dead. The helpful response was “you may be watering it too much. Or not enough.”


Maybe it’s just me. I’m not programmed to figure out assembly instructions that are just or mostly pictures. I abhor being sent to videos to hear someone slowly and carefully explain the steps of assembly. I’m a reader.


My solution is no solution, I fear. I am inclined to consider that we are possibly asking the wrong questions (and this wouldn’t be the first time). A post-literate world? Or, based on a statistic I once read — that 70% of all books published (in English) are non-fiction — and adding to this that no one is reading, I pose the question: are we actually in a post-fact/post-knowledge world? Are we headed to a post-information age? If social media relies on video and limited character sets, is this the post-word world? Aren’t my thousand-word screeds far too long? Short attention spans are presently disorders. Will they become the norm?


How long until Fahrenheit 451? Sorry, folks, I mean 232 Celsius. For those of you who don’t know what I’m talking about, it’s a novel by Ray Bradbury in which a future . . . soon or very soon . . . exists where books are illegal. So-called firemen are charged to go to homes where folks hide their books and magazines and secretly read them. Or maybe they don’t. They just hide them. They’re all old people, too. Lovers of books. Accumulators of knowledge. Sorry, Ray. The whole premise tilts on its ear. There’s no need for “firemen” to come burn books. Why bother, when the radical sentences contained within can’t be shared?