For all the books I’ve read and all the hours I’v put into reading them, I’ve retained such a small fraction of knowledge in comparison that it seems almost forgettable. Rather, the greater part of knowledge comes from first hand experience, practice and self-reflection. It’s as if reading merely exposed me to knowledge, but it was my use of the knowledge that determined if it stayed with me or not.
Whenever I read something for the sake of knowledge, that information stays in my mind for a short period of time. All the facts and dates I try to remember are useless unless I need to recite them or discuss them with someone.
The knowledge I’ve gathered from books, whether they are about history or science, are fuzzy and unclear. I remember bits and pieces, though the details have slipped away from my memory. I don’t remember any specifics with regard to where historical figures lived, nor what their family lineage was. None of it seemed important enough to remember.
I can recall which novels I’ve read, but not all of the characters in the books or what the plot points were. It’s as if that knowledge were pushed out for the next book, making room for it. The most I remember was the affect or influence it had on me.
As I look back at all of the books I’ve read, I’m acutely aware that I didn’t need to remember everything I read. No one is giving me a test on the books, let a lone asking me what I had read. It was all for me–for my experience to grow and to expose me to different ideas.
When I read a non-fiction book, I’m more interested in the ideas than of the all the facts in them. When I read a fiction book, I read it more for the pleasure of skillful writing, as well as the power of the narrative. Retaining every speck of detail isn’t really important. It’s what I took away from them that counts the most.
Fallton Havenstonne 