Those of us who consider ourselves bibliophiles face the perennial problem of having too many books to read, and far too little time. More than once, I have looked in despair at the film of dust coating the cover of a book on the bedside table. I resign myself to the fact that I may never get around to reading that book, that its physical presence is but another reminder of the things I probably don’t have time to do, and that this once lovingly published volume has been consigned to the fate of a decorative object. That poor tome can only aspire to prop up other books that may one day receive a bit more love.

And so my achievements as a reader always fall short of my intentions. I could blame the profusion of interesting books or the demands of my work or my family commitments. But there is also another force limiting my reading life, a force that I struggle to resist: Good TV.

In the last decade, the mushrooming of internet streaming services (Netflix, Amazon Video, HBO and so on) has helped produce remarkable works of televised storytelling, from monumental series such as Game of Thrones to the gritty realism of the recently aired Chernobyl to the impeccable Sacred Games . Thanks to the Netflix algorithm, I am more exposed to contemporary German TV drama or Korean historical epics than I am to contemporary German or Korean literature. As a writer who tries to keep realistic expectations about the cultural habits of my current and future audiences, I sadly find in my own habits of consumption the very crisis that stalks the future of books.

In fairness, much of this TV is unambiguously good, thoughtfully made with tremendous ambition. Take Chernobyl , for instance, a five-part drama that concluded this month on HBO. The show delves into the 1986 disaster at the Soviet nuclear power plant with extraordinary depth and detail. It reveals, on the one hand, the human struggles and sacrifices in the wake of the calamity, and on the other, the inhuman might of the State and the way systems of power develop a logic of self-preservation altogether removed from the people they control. It has won many plaudits already, including being ranked as the highest audience-rated TV programme of all time. And it is certainly worthy of being watched, from its fine acting and dialogue, to its doggedly realistic reconstruction of 1980s Soviet life, to the questions it raises about the function of truth in all societies (and not just in the USSR of the ’80s).

To my regret, I find it easier at the end of a long day (especially one that has involved wrangling a toddler) to recline into the evening with a show such as Chernobyl than with a good book. I know I’m not alone. I have noticed that even in my conversations with other writers, editors, and journalists (people who have committed themselves to the strange, ancient medium of print), we tend to talk about recent TV more than we do about recent books. TV has an increasing social function in modern life, it provides the grist for conversation in a way that books do less often (perhaps because it’s easier for large numbers of people to have consumed the same TV or film than it is for them to read the same book). A few weeks ago, I had the amusing experience of sitting outside a bar and realising that the conversations taking place around me on three different tables were all debates about the merits of the series finale of Game of Thrones .

I remain, of course, a committed reader, but I am troubled about my allocation of time. The two activities of reading and watching are becoming increasingly antithetical in my mind. I’m more aware of what reading does for me that TV does not. A book insists on sustained, immersed attention over days (not mere hours); you live in a book, but you only pass through a TV series. The medium of TV and film can do so much in delivering a narrative that print cannot, from visual effects to layered music to the visceral depiction of action and character, but it cannot replicate the experience of the pleasures and rigours of good writing, of artful language and poetic imagery. The act of reading builds a kind of internal quiet, a space of attention and solitude. When I surface from a book, it feels very much like coming up refreshed from a dip in a pool.

I can’t imagine a future where three separate tables at a bar will all be furiously discussing the same novel. But that’s to be expected. Books are more demanding of their readers than TV is of its viewers. There will always be more people who want to surrender to the passive act of watching than those willing to put in the active effort to read. Years from now, I hope I will still be one of the latter.

BLINKKANISHK

Kanishk Tharoor

 

Kanishk Tharoor is the author of Swimmer Among Stars, a collection of short fiction; Twitter: @kanishktharoor

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