The Deep Read
Dear Reader,
This read is commonly known as “the close read” or “close reading.” I didn’t choose those terms, among other reasons, because close reading varies heavily upon the definition intended by its user. There isn’t so much close reading as several variants of close reading (the most insane and least done being Boothian analysis).
I also chose the deep read as it speaks less of attention and more of absorption. The deep read is a state as much as an orientation. The deep read isn’t the only read, and perhaps not even the best read, but it is one of my favorite forms of reading.
The deep read can involve a single work, a single topic, several interwoven works, several interwoven topics. The deep read can be meditative; the deep read can be intense.
Meditative
Now, with the idea of meditative reading, I need to be careful. There’s an interplay with certain kinds of deep reading and aspects of meditative reading, but I don’t think they are necessarily the same. Frankly, I’m still trying to puzzle out their precise relationship.
I’ll reflect more on this book highlighted by Alan Jacobs when I’ve made time to read it. (I did purchase it as research for this newsletter.) But for now, I want to pull this reflection of his, as it does pertain slightly to today’s post, even if I think it bends more towards the sort of meditative reading that stands apart from the deep read:
In a brilliant and important book, Religious Reading, Paul Griffiths demonstrates that in most of the great religious traditions… there are genres of reading, that is, kinds of texts in which one records one’s reading. The two major genres, according to Griffiths, are commentary and anthology. To people trained in the habits of mind associated with the thesis paper, these genres seem passive and deferential — especially when applied to non-religious texts. But those genres are not passive at all, and insofar as they are deferential that deference may be quite appropriate. After all, many non-religious texts, especially when they arise in cultures distant from us in time or space or both, pose great difficulties for the reader. Allusions will escape us, social and cultural contexts will be unknown to us, subtleties of argument or exposition or characterization or poetic language will leave us scratching our heads. To seek to identify and then resolve those difficulties — these are highly demanding intellectual tasks, and will not allow passivity, though, as they reveal the complexities that animate really significant works, they may promote deference.
In the deep read, you aren’t necessarily oriented towards rebuttal or argument bolstering: you’re just in it.
This can include finding yourself in a text that presents a real puzzle. Instead of that puzzle being a distraction, though, you’ll find yourself meditating on what you find. This is how I experienced Josef Pieper’s Leisure, the Basis of Culture, the second time around. This is pretty much how I first experienced Stephen Booth’s Precious Nonsense the first time around.
Curiously, I immediately pulled quotes from Booth (“anthology”, as above) but I’ve never taken a note on Pieper, not even when I read him in undergrad. (I don’t have the guts to do “commentary” on Booth, aside from discussing him with others.) My mediations on Pieper remain in memory alone—there is no record of interaction.
The meditative read, in the deep reading context, can thus include the “Oh! This line!” and “Ooh, this insight” responses. It can include the extraction of quotes into your own quote anthology (a practice I recommend even though I’ve personally neglected it in recent years).
As for commentary, it’ll be more reflection, nearer to personal journaling responses than planned-for public commentary.
In the Zone
Sometimes you find yourself in a read where the writer just bends you and moves you as the writer likes. I recently started Letters of E.B. White and was greeted by this nugget from John Updike:
”The prose of E.B. White, as manifested in his letters, lopes along sensibly and informatively, like many other people’s, until it delivers an unexpected poetic punch.”
Yes, yes indeed.
Few writers approach White’s calm maneuvering of both text and reader. Even so, I’ve found myself in full reading rhythm while working my way through the extremely lengthy Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell, and that’s a read that has the interruptions of footnotes, though I admittedly don’t find those distracting (unlike endnotes, which are an abomination with few exceptions).
Certain writers seem to constantly dislocate you from the text, sometimes intentionally so. Other times, not so much. Regardless of intent or skill, the effect doesn’t typically allow for deep reading. A work like George Saunder’s Tenth of December seems to rely more on its dislocating stylistic effect than the rhythm of the prose, and I frankly wonder if its stories can impress anything on a reader who isn’t familiar with the grammatical and stylistic peculiarities that Saunders employs. Saunders is a writer’s writer, not a reader’s writer. I found Tenth of December interesting, but I don’t know that I could find myself deep in it, as I was always observing the disjointed style. It’s well done, but cleverly so.
I’ve felt myself ripped along by a Billy Collins poem, barely aware that I was in poetry or such carefully chosen words. I’ve found myself flying along in sports writing, though I must admit that I usually realize with some immediacy what’s just happened upon finishing the piece. (Such sports writing is rare and thus notable.) Some books you don’t even find that flow until somewhere mid-read, and then there’s just this smoothness and depth as you go along.
And I’m not talking about speed in the above examples. Speed is irrelevant in the deep read, though skim reading isn’t a likely candidate for a deep read, even if I’ve definitely had a few times where what I thought was going to be a skim read became a deep read (and I don’t usually make that shift intentionally—it’s a natural shift, usually mid-read).
A reader can rip along at a tortoise’s pace. This sometimes occurs when words are just magic—it’s a near cousin to reading as a writer, but you aren’t trying to read as a writer. You’re delighting in the words as a reader.
Sometimes, though, the writer is moving you along, and it isn’t as a tortoise goes. E.B. White is among those who mastered this technique. It’s just a smooth clip. And yet you’re in the read.
I must admit that I’m almost never more disappointed than when I find myself near a deep read, and there’s something about the text I’m reading that is just faintly off. Reader error aside, the almost deep read is a particular kind of letdown.
Unbounded Horizon
It should be emphasized that deep reads are not necessarily one-sitting reads. Nor are all one-sitting reads deep reads.
A deep read can extend over many months from a single publication! It took me six months to work my way through “The Evening of Life,” which was a surprise deep read for me. Chapter books can easily take the same or longer, the beauty of the language or the density of the theme suggesting that the read should be attended to with a sharp mind and a luxuriating spirit.
One of the reasons I couldn’t get a grip on Trudy Govier’s Victims and Victimhood is that the read was one I wanted as a deep read and I hadn’t the mental space for such a read when I picked up the book. And so I put it down. Some things are worth waiting for. (In Govier’s case, the close read won’t be for her prose, but rather because the ideas are ones closely related to my ethics research, territory I once studied with eagerness.)
It’s a bit strange that a deep read can be read over a long period of time, or at least it seems so to me. Yet it is so. A deep read can be that one long sitting; it can be a number of sittings.
The flexibility of the deep read—that isn’t just one thing or just one way—is part of what I love about it. I can find myself in different deep reads, whether expectedly or unexpectedly. Some I plan for with great anticipation, knowing that heartbreak will be found if it doesn’t live up to that bar. But so many other times I have no idea, and a read hits me just so. And that’s perhaps why I and so many others keep reading.
The Life of the Mind
If you’ve ever wondered why someone might do a PhD, the deep read has something to do with it. Massive research projects for books, for graduate work, for articles, for novels—these can all be part of the deep read.
When the mind is enlivened and interested by the read, getting into that deep flow is possible even amid the necessity of notetaking and the like. Indeed, those practices occasionally help someone to get into the deep read, which is why some people so strongly associate a marked-up text with close reading.
Graduate work isn’t the pinnacle of the life of the mind—I’ve met too many graduate students who’ve found their studies a boring chore—but it is one well-known form of it. I wouldn’t anchor the life of the mind to graduate studies alone, but the life of the mind is the promise or best form of such labors. And graduate work can at least exemplify what I mentioned earlier: finding interwoven topics and merrily exploring them more.
Many people write mostly so that they can spend more time in the life of the mind (I’ve managed to screw this up, as my writing does not support my reading habit and I also don’t enjoy writing. Let’s just say I understand the model, but it isn’t one I’ve figured out how to employ for myself). That is, many people write what they don’t know so they can learn about it, often on someone else’s dime.
But there are adventurers aplenty who dive deep into reading, ones you’ll almost never hear about. The Toy Crafter investigated the history of tops because he was making tops, and he shared that knowledge in book form mostly because he had toys to sell.
Head to any library and you’ll find some oddballs deep-diving into corners of the universe that almost no one else cares about. And that’s great. Think of how many libraries there are, with their quiet adventurers.
“I find this interesting. What more is there?” is a lovely starting premise. The life of the mind needs no more than that, really, and deep reads abound from such a seemingly innocent start.
I realize not all of my readers have found themselves in a deep read before. And I truly do hope that you haven’t felt left out, or worse, less-than as a reader. Some of us require more reps to get there; some people were trained in school to never experience the deep read.
But even if you’ve not experienced the deep read just yet, I trust you’ve experienced some forms of pleasant or at least semi-pleasant reading. And that’s a start.
Happy reading to you all,
Kreigh
P.S. My finishing off this specific essay—which has been in draft since the first week of this newsletter’s publication—was inspired by Cal Newport’s Deep Work. I read that book on suggestion, and I like its central emphasis (and am quite thankful for the recommendation!). What it ends up being is a reflection on “flow” in the specific context of the working world. In essence, it’s an applied form (and obviously much longer mediation) of Mark Edmundon’s exquisite “Pay Attention.”
Its strengths are its weakness. While pointing readers to classics like Sertillanges’ The Intellectual Life—here Newport is in agreement with Zena Hitz as to that book’s value—Newport’s wide-ranging invocation of works that support his point also introduces a long list of writers who I cannot quite stomach—writers who conveniently enough blurb his book. When Adam Grant blurbs you and you cite his productivity as a key insight, then you realize there might be some gapping in your own argument. Yes, Grant is prolific. No, Grant is not insightful. (His book Give and Take makes an obvious point that is accomplished in about 15 pages, but is instead many more than that, most of them meandering and a few incoherent.) Matthew B. Crawford is someone whose first book I find borderline hypocritical and also super boring—I understand his fans for Shop Class as Soulcraft but having read the book twice I remain not among them. Newport’s selection of those two authors and then their blurbing of him has a bit more “I’ll scratch your back if you’ll scratch mine” than I’m comfortable with, especially since Grant’s productivity is not one to be admired, unless you’re a fan of hackneyed treatises.
But some obnoxious examples aside, Deep Work is a worthwhile book if you’ve read Edmundson and are wondering how his insights might apply to professional life. (Admittedly, there are quite a few economics studies that Newport takes for granted instead of questioning whether the few “deep workers” deserve quite the rewards they receive. And he also doesn’t examine whether the possibility of everyone doing deep work removes the economic benefit, which is where Zena Hitz’s book outshines his.)
It’s a smooth read. This allows for easy notetaking, and it introduces many other books and articles a reader can dive into if that reader wants more. These are good things. Of some amusement, Newport’s Deep Work often follows the Gladwellian model of writing a book that can prevent the reader from actually getting into a deep mode of reading.
The “stickiness” of incomplete stories—valorized in business books from Made to Stick on—might keep you in the book, but they don’t keep you connected with it. You are rather distracted as you keep waiting for that story to finish up already. Deep Work is mostly written as a business takeaway book. And this isn’t a flaw. It’s just amusing in the context of his writing about deep work.
(In other ways, reading Deep Work reminded me quite a bit of reading Alan Jacobs’ How to Think, especially because both authors make use of basically the same set of hustler and hacker and success stories that everyone recycles. I can guess most of the citations without even needing to wonder from whence the anecdote sprang.)
One book that I constantly keep in mind while reading something like Deep Work is The Halo Effect, one of the few business books truly worth reading. Every time you read a business success story, keep in mind that the narrator is doing a kind of historical analysis, and it’s usually a surface analysis that attributes much more success to the narrator’s pet theory than other possibilities. But I’ll leave deeper consideration of that point to you after you’ve had the chance to read The Halo Effect.
One thing that I couldn’t strip from my mind while reading Deep Work was a narrow intersection with education, and it’s probably not one most readers think about. Along Newport’s line of deep work, we can observe one of the flaws of standardized testing: such tests don’t approximate deep work. They demand the focus of deep work while creating a context in which that very work is undermined. They do not unearth those students capable of deep work, but rather reward those who are capable of faking it in contrived contexts. Essentially, standardized tests both reward and cement what Newport calls shallow work. Isn’t that great?
(Newport’s advice in his “Work Deeply” chapter is my favorite part of the book, and that’s because it acknowledges that how a person might approach deep work is absolutely defeasible. It could be argued that Newport wrote his book for the reader with slivers of deep work time, but it’s not. It’s written so that you can easily work your way through the concepts. I read my copy in between students—I was never in “deep work” mode, though I was fully engaged with my read. And I’d have been disappointed had I hoped for a deep read of Deep Work)
Last, I do need to note one thing: Newport eventually discusses a season in which he took his “deep work” too far. And that’s because he took it beyond “The Deep Read” territory. Instead, he entered the realm of “The Grinding Read.” And yes, that piece will be here soon—it’s always been intended to appear in close proximity to today’s.
If you want an introduction to some ideas about flow or absorption in your work and “Pay Attention!” merely whet your appetite, Deep Work could be a good book to check out. I personally would suggest Lost in Thought, however. The reason is that Lost in Thought gets to the whole person whereas Deep Work is about the human as productive economic widget. (Newport says he isn’t into making moral claims, but like so many in the computer science and tech startup worlds, he’s still making them, even if blindly.) Deep Work, though, is a very good book. The second half in particular gets into some excellent discussion if you’re trying to rethink the depth of your work or simply reclaim some human corner for yourself beyond the “attention economy.” It could also provide a helpful first step if you’re struggling to find your way into deep reads. At the worst, Newport is a better guide than I.
P.P.S. Lest it seem that I critique Adam Grant too harshly without providing evidence—I rather thought I’d spare you a full rant—here’s one of his latest ill-considered words of wisdom:
The most meaningful way to start getting to know people is not to ask where they’re from or what they do.
It’s to show an interest in how they became who they are.
“What’s a defining moment that shaped your identity?”
We reveal ourselves in the stories we tell about our pasts.
First of all, can you imagine opening a conversation with that? If you’ve ever had a stalker or known someone who’s been stalked—or are just from the Midwest—can you imagine this seriously invasive opener?
Beyond that, where you’re from can be the most meaningful thing about you, as could be what you do. And for most of us, we’ve had no single, defining moment any more than we’ve read a defining book. Even my dear friends won’t get very far asking me a direct question like that. There isn’t that one book and there isn’t that one moment. Unlike some fortunate individuals, I’ve never even had that one teacher.
It’s not that Grant’s words do actual harm—though they might ruin a few budding friendships—it’s simply that they are vacuous. Reading his thoughts is to observe a parade of platitudes masquerading as the insight of the gods.
Still, to take Grant at his suggestion: A defining moment that shaped my identity was reading Adam Grant’s Give and Take with some CEOs and business development execs. The book’s core thesis—that the Aristotelean mean applies to prudent business etiquette (no, Grant didn’t offer this insight. I’ve just read Aristotle)—was communicated in about five pages. And the wisest execs in the room noted that they hadn’t bothered reading the whole book because it was repeating itself and wasting their time at that point. These, by the way, were the most giving leaders among the executives. They didn’t need Grant’s book to teach them about human endeavors, and they also recognized when they were being handed a long-winded cash grab of a book.
So I guess you could call that a defining moment. But I don’t think you’ve learned anything meaningful about me…