By Tom Robotham
When I was a young father, one of my greatest pleasures was reading aloud to my kids—often, from books I’d loved in my own early childhood: Blueberries for Sal, Curious George, Madeline, The Cat in the Hat, and many others. The riches of this ritual were manifold. For me, it was an opportunity to indulge in my love of spoken language: the sounds of words and the rhythms of sentences. I also took pleasure in revisiting the charming illustrations that had first captivated me as a toddler.
For my children, meanwhile, it was invaluable. In addition to giving them a sense of connection with me, it began to ingrain in them an appreciation of stories, and books as sacred objects.
My sense of this was borne out as my son and daughter transitioned to adulthood. Both of them are not only avid readers and book lovers; they’ve also based their vocations on that foundation: my son as a screenwriter and filmmaker, and my daughter as an elementary school teacher who is passionate about nurturing young minds. Perhaps they would have found those paths anyway, but I think it’s fair to say that these early reading-aloud sessions influenced them.
I can say with confidence that my own vocation rests on the same foundation, not only because my parents read to me but also because my teachers did. One, in particular, stands out: Miss Kelly, when I was in the third grade. Every afternoon, for the last half-hour of the school day, she read aloud from The Black Stallion, and I cherished that time. It wasn’t just that I was fascinated by the story; her taking the time to read to us without expectation—there were no quizzes—struck me as an act of love.
Today, of course, that probably wouldn’t happen, since every moment in the classroom has to be tied to demonstrable “learning outcomes.” This sickens and angers me, but I suppose the general degradation of education is a subject for another time.
My point is to emphasize the value of reading aloud—and not just for children.
When I introduce my college students to a work of literature, I always read portions of it aloud. This, I find, is especially important with poetry, which tends to baffle them.
Consider, for example, the opening lines of Wallace Stevens’ “Sunday Morning,” a powerful expression of religious skepticism in the early 20th century:
“Complacencies of the peignoir, and late / Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair, /
And the green freedom of a cockatoo / Upon a rug mingle to dissipate / The holy hush of ancient sacrifice.”
Before I get into the detail—explaining what a “peignoir” is, or asking what the “ancient sacrifice” might refer to—I invite them to simply savor the sounds.
This seems to help open doors to consideration: to get them to put their guard down for a moment and just let the richness of the language wash over them, like music. Not that they instantly internalize this lesson. Most of them tell me that their parents never read to them when they were young, so the experience is new to them. But I see in their eyes at least a glimmer of interest in the sound of a phrase like “the holy hush of ancient sacrifice” when read aloud with relish.
As a result, I encourage them to read aloud even when they’re by themselves, perusing a text in preparation for a weekly writing assignment.
This can be especially valuable for people with attention-deficit disorder, which is increasingly common these days, thanks to social media. And yet, the idea of reading aloud somehow goes against the grain of our societal values. We associate speed reading with intelligence and disparage people whose “lips move” when they read, as if that is a sign of idiocy.
But why?
Reading aloud has the additional benefit of slowing down the mind and making space for deep reflection on a single line or passage—a process at least as valuable as racing through a book just to get the gist of it, like some AI bot. Alas, our society and education system place a premium on the latter—witness the push in higher ed toward accelerated online classes—and little value on the former.
Meanwhile, the act of reading aloud to someone deepens intimacy. I remember my mom telling me that she and my dad read to each other nightly when they were newly married. That ritual faded away for them after they got a television in the early ‘50s, and I sometimes wonder if their marriage might have remained stronger had they continued it.
The Christmas season seems to be an especially good time to start or revive this practice. Imagine sitting by the fire in your living room, surrounded by family, reading Clement-Clarke Moore’s iconic poem, “A Visit from St. Nicholas”—or more ambitiously, Dickens’ A Christmas Carol.
Or anything else, for that matter. It doesn’t have to have a holiday theme. Any poetry or prose that glitters like sunlight on a Christmas morning snowfall will do.
All the better if the books are first wrapped and place under the tree, adorned by bright bows. They make ideal gifts because, unlike toys, which provide fleeting delight, the joys of well-chosen books last a lifetime. I still own many books I received as presents—from Cowboy Andy to a finely bound limited-edition volume of Chekhov’s short stories—and whenever I look at them, there arises a mental picture of that moment when I unwrapped them.
My father read Cowboy Andy to me countless times—I was 5 when I received it—but not Chekhov, which he gave me when I was 17. I suppose he thought I was too old to be read to at that point, but if he were still alive, I’d ask him to read to me aloud now—or offer to read to him.
Likewise, I wish I had thought to read aloud to my mother when she was descending ever deeper into dementia. Whether she would have understood any of it, I don’t know—but I’m sure it would have had some positive effect.
Perhaps it’s because of these regrets that I now cherish the act of reading aloud to someone else—or sitting back and letting someone read to me—more than ever. In an increasingly noisy and frantic world, the act brings about a rare quietude. It’s hard to put a price on that.