A recent YouGov poll indicated that 40% of British individuals didn’t read a book last year. Philip Ross predicted back in 2000 that “the literary age is over,” suggesting that the required concentration for reading novels might fade away. He pointed out that people lack the sustained focus and solitude for reading as they once did.
Various studies do seem to back Ross’ assertion. For instance, the average attention span has plummeted from approximately 2.5 minutes to about 45 seconds over the last few decades. I noticed this firsthand, especially during my two TED talks nearly a decade apart. In 2010, attendees were expected to focus for 20 minutes; by 2017, that time had dropped to around 13 minutes. Organizers explained that people’s attention spans had diminished. Still, I continued sharing my story for the full 20 minutes, and I’d argue that novels still hold value.
The same YouGov poll reveals that among readers, over 55% favor fiction. Publishers and bookstores confirm this trend: the appetite for novels remains vibrant. This persistence of long-form literature is quite remarkable in an era characterized by information overload, rapid consumption, and a culture that clamors for instant gratification.
What long forms can withstand is not a small miracle in a world shaped by superinformation.
We are inundated with information but often lack knowledge and wisdom. This overwhelming flood can make us complacent and, in turn, paralyze us. The balance needs adjustment; we should emphasize knowledge and wisdom. Acquiring knowledge involves reading books, engaging with thoughtful journalism, listening to podcasts, and attending cultural events. For wisdom, storytelling becomes essential. Long-form narratives are integral to this process.
Now, I’m not claiming that all novelists possess wisdom; in fact, we can often be quite confused. Yet, long-form writing encompasses insight, emotional intelligence, and empathy. Milan Kundera pointed out the distinction when he said, “The wisdom of novels is very different from philosophy.” Ultimately, storytelling has a timeless quality that surpasses our own understanding—writers grasp this courageously, as do readers.
In recent times, I’ve noticed a shift in book events and literary festivals across the UK. It’s refreshing to see a growing number of younger attendees. While some come with parents, many are venturing out on their own or with friends. There’s also a notable increase in young men participating in fiction events. It seems that, as our world becomes more chaotic, there’s an escalating need to slow down and immerse ourselves in fiction. In these turbulent times, where anger and anxiety seem prevalent, and where divisions among people deepen, novels help to break down these binaries.
The epic of Gilgamesh casts a long shadow through literary history. Dating back at least 4,000 years, it stands as a precursor to works like Homer’s Odyssey and Iliad. The story centers around an unlikely hero—King Gilgamesh, a restless figure dealing with inner turmoil. At first, he embodies selfish traits fueled by greed and ambition, until divine forces send him a companion, Enkidu. Their journey not only leads to external discoveries but also serves as a path to self-discovery.
This tale addresses friendship while also exploring themes such as the formidable forces of nature, humanity’s desire for eternal youth, and the inevitability of death. Unlike many classic heroes who achieve clear victories, Gilgamesh faces loss and disappointment. However, through these struggles, he transforms into a more compassionate and insightful individual. Ancient poetry speaks to the potential for change and the pursuit of wisdom.
Countless empires have risen and fallen since the tale of Gilgamesh first emerged. Yet, this story continues to resonate and teach us even today. King Gilgamesh learns about his own vulnerabilities and resilience through his life experiences, ultimately understanding what it means to be human—much like when I delve into a novel about others.
