[Xdes]

I do not see the problem. I have never read books for pleasure. Most of the books I own are technical or reference material that have practical applications. Why would I want to read for pleasure? I did not find anything interesting about The Catcher in the Rye, Lord of the Flies, or To Kill a Mockingbird which were standard readings when I went to school. Maybe I do not have the imaginative capacity like those people that "get lost" in books.

[ronaldx]

Story-telling is important for society.

It teaches us how people might react to situations we are not immediately familiar with, and how to empathise with people (characters) who have a different viewpoint than our own.

And, it teaches us how to communicate our own stories effectively (as you have done here, in fact).

So, I find it strange that you have never enjoyed reading fiction books. It is not necessary to read fiction to gain any particular skill, but reading fiction helps you gain a wealth of skills.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Storytelling#Storytelling_and_...

[bmj]

Story-telling is important for society.

I'd also argue that even if someone says "oh, I don't read stories," their lives are still very much affected by "stories," many of which are not explicitly told to us (rather, we learn them via cultural habits). Over the last few years, I've found it interesting (and satisfying) to examine what sorts of stories inform my life.

[the_af]

It's true that story-telling is important for society, but I also find this view a bit... utilitarian.

Story-telling and reading are important because they are enriching, pleasurable activities; among the best there are, in fact. That they also make you a better person is a welcome bonus.

[JetSpiegel]

It's really depressing that people are citing studies to justify reading novels.

That's a story for the ages...

[seren]

At the age of Fitbit, Soylent, 4-hour work week, etc, and particularly on HN, it seems you have to have some sort of reward or definite end-goal to partake in any activity.

[enraged_camel]

Most books you can read "for pleasure" are stories about people, their interactions, struggles, aspirations and conflicts. Reading such books helps you better empathize with other people and relate to them, even if you yourself have not personally experienced what they are going through.

I'll give you a random example that popped in my head: there are a ton of similarities between office politics today and the society the kids set up for themselves in Lord of the Flies. For a long time I could not make sense of the former, until I read the latter a second time, but this time outside of a school's "standard reading" context. Only then did I appreciate the power of the book's social commentary and its applications to a large variety of social settings (including, as I mentioned, the workplace).

[will_work4tears]

You should check out this[0] Neil Gaiman article about the importance of reading (Libraries, really, but touches on reading fiction specifically)

[0] - http://www.theguardian.com/books/2013/oct/15/neil-gaiman-fut...

[greggman]

I was similar to you? When I was ~19 I had never read a novel except stuff required by school. I hated it. I only read non-fiction stuff about Space and computer manuals/books/reference.

I asked my best friend that loved to read what book would get me to like reading. He recommended H.Beam Piper's "Little Fuzzies" and I couldn't stop reading until I finished. I think his next recommendation was Ender's Game which I also couldn't stop reading. I never quite got addicted to reading but when something does catch me I can't stop, often not getting enough sleep until I finish.

I agree with you, The Catcher in the Rye, Lord of the Flies, To Kill a Mockingbird, are not for everyone. They weren't for me either. Many "classics" seem very out dated to me. But, I'm going to guess if you found the right books you'd at least really enjoy them even if like me you never become an avid reader

[VLM]

Classics, hmm, have to think about that claim vs the examples.

catcher in the rye (English 1951), lord of the rings err flies lol (English 1954), to kill a mockingbird (English 1960) but written in the 50s.

That is an extremely narrow definition of classics, all English language novels written in the 1950s by white dudes. If you have to hit 50-ish English novels at least try some Tolkien or Hemmingway or if +/- a couple decades is OK, some golden era Asimov and Clarke sci fi? Harlan Ellison and the invisible man?

If you have to stay white dude but are willing to stretch the dates, how bout some Hunter S Thompson from the 70s, or go the other way for the Great Gatsby (both titles are not for everyone, I think?)

Not trying to give you a hard time, but to point out that there's an extremely large world out there other than English novels from the 50s. Sure there's some good stuff, but theres orders of magnitude more "out there".

I think it would be hard for a teen boy not to be captivated by "anabasis aka the Persian expedition" which is a mere 2500 years old. Blood n guts and high adventure in a crazy old world on the other side of the planet 2500 years ago. If it weren't true some video game author would write it today. Gateway drug to Herodotus and then you end up lost to the "great books".

I read and greatly enjoyed Gibbon (its about one foot on a bookshelf, depending on edition) but even I haven't completed any Russians. So I can't answer if "The Idiot" is worth completing. However, not everything worth reading takes six months.

[seren]

Studies have shown than reading fictions tends to improve empathy [1]. This is a great assets for doctors for example (but also to deal with a client, customer, boss, co-workers, etc). Obviously, if you are put through a character stream of consciousness repeatedly and in various situation, it might be easier to put yourself in someone's shoes in every day interaction.

In the end, reading is an opportunity cost, the time you 'll spend reading, will not be spent on something else. So I don't think that if you don't enjoy it, you should read in the hope of "improving your empathy".

[1] http://well.blogs.nytimes.com/2013/10/03/i-know-how-youre-fe...

[j2kun]

Standard assigned readings may not interest you precisely because they're assigned. You're telling me you've never read a novel on your own? Not Harry Potter, Lord of the Rings, Game of Thrones, nothing?

[Xdes]

>You're telling me you've never read a novel on your own?

I have never read a novel. I was curious whether I could finish one, so I tried to read the first Harry Potter book. I did not continue after the fifth chapter since it felt like work.

[the_af]

Reading for pleasure is a skill that works like a muscle that must be exercised. The more you train it, the easier it becomes. If you never read as a kid, I can understand why you'd find it difficult as an adult.

I'm curious, though: do you watch TV for fun, i.e. not to learn something but just to enjoy the story?

[wyager]

>I have never read a novel.

Wow. This is like someone telling me "I've never used the internet.". You're cutting yourself off from a huge supply of information.

[ensignavenger]

A lot of people don't really like the first few chapters of the first Harry Potter book when they first read it. It is not uncommon for people to stop reading the first book at a few chapters in. Perhaps you should try something different for your first novel. I like the Chronicles of Narnia series by CS Lewis, his writing is short and to the point, but very descriptive in its own way. That may not be your cup of tea, though. You may want to ask friends or family who know your tastes better what they would recommend. Or just read the next 5 chapters of harry Potter and see if it gets any better for you- I think for most people it does.

[sergiosgc]

It takes the right book, the right mood and the right stimulus. I used to think like you. I can tell you that after you enjoy the first novel, you "get" it. You get why everyone says the book is better at the end of a movie session.

What changed my perception of fiction books was the passion of a friend of my mom about a particular book, and the fact that the book was around during some particularly boring summer vacations.

I imagine such a collusion of events in nowadays fast paced world is more difficult. I do understand where you are coming from, though.

[sitkack]

That is only one data point.

You like non-non-fiction movies? Take a director of a movie you like and go read a story that they used for a movie you haven't seen.

[JetSpiegel]

Not even Neuromancer? Snow Crash?

[watwut]

Not every adult finds Harry Potter fun to read.

[nateq314]

Wow.

[eli_gottlieb]

I do see the problem. You think the books they assigned you in high school were meant to be a representative sample of high literature or (worse!) of reading for fun. They're not.

For the sake of your soul, go get yourself some pulpy science-fiction this very instant!

[batmansbelt]

You should try out some better books. Have a go at this passage from A Portrait Of The Artist As A Young Man, by Joyce, wherein the protagonist Stephen Dedalus is losing his mind after having spent a week being whipped into a religious frenzy. He is alone in his room pondering his frequent visits to brothels:

> He closed the door and, walking swiftly to the bed, knelt beside it and covered his face with his hands. His hands were cold and damp and his limbs ached with chill. Bodily unrest and chill and weariness beset him, routing his thoughts. Why was he kneeling there like a child saying his evening prayers? To be alone with his soul, to examine his conscience, to meet his sins face to face, to recall their times and manners and circumstances, to weep over them. He could not weep. He could not summon them to his memory. He felt only an ache of soul and body, his whole being, memory, will, understanding, flesh, benumbed and weary.

>

> That was the work of devils, to scatter his thoughts and over-cloud his conscience, assailing him at the gates of the cowardly and sin-corrupted flesh: and, praying God timidly to forgive him his weakness, he crawled up on to the bed and, wrapping the blankets closely about him, covered his face again with his hands. He had sinned. He had sinned so deeply against heaven and before God that he was not worthy to be called God's child.

>

> Could it be that he, Stephen Dedalus, had done those things? His conscience sighed in answer. Yes, he had done them, secretly, filthily, time after time, and, hardened in sinful impenitence, he had dared to wear the mask of holiness before the tabernacle itself while his soul within was a living mass of corruption. How came it that God had not struck him dead? The leprous company of his sins closed about him, breathing upon him, bending over him from all sides. He strove to forget them in an act of prayer, huddling his limbs closer together and binding down his eyelids: but the senses of his soul would not be bound and, though his eyes were shut fast, he saw the places where he had sinned and, though his ears were tightly covered, he heard. He desired with all his will not to hear or see. He desired till his frame shook under the strain of his desire and until the senses of his soul closed. They closed for an instant and then opened. He saw.

>

> A field of stiff weeds and thistles and tufted nettle-bunches. Thick among the tufts of rank stiff growth lay battered canisters and clots and coils of solid excrement. A faint marshlight struggling upwards from all the ordure through the bristling grey-green weeds. An evil smell, faint and foul as the light, curled upwards sluggishly out of the canisters and from the stale crusted dung.

>

> Creatures were in the field: one, three, six: creatures were moving in the field, hither and thither. Goatish creatures with human faces, hornybrowed, lightly bearded and grey as india-rubber. The malice of evil glittered in their hard eyes, as they moved hither and thither, trailing their long tails behind them. A rictus of cruel malignity lit up greyly their old bony faces. One was clasping about his ribs a torn flannel waistcoat, another complained monotonously as his beard stuck in the tufted weeds. Soft language issued from their spittleless lips as they swished in slow circles round and round the field, winding hither and thither through the weeds, dragging their long tails amid the rattling canisters. They moved in slow circles, circling closer and closer to enclose, to enclose, soft language issuing from their lips, their long swishing tails besmeared with stale shite, thrusting upwards their terrific faces...

>

> Help!

>

> He flung the blankets from him madly to free his face and neck. That was his hell. God had allowed him to see the hell reserved for his sins: stinking, bestial, malignant, a hell of lecherous goatish fiends. For him! For him!

>

> He sprang from the bed, the reeking odour pouring down his throat, clogging and revolting his entrails. Air! The air of heaven! He stumbled towards the window, groaning and almost fainting with sickness. At the washstand a convulsion seized him within; and, clasping his cold forehead wildly, he vomited profusely in agony.