When I arrived in Oxford as a visiting student eager to immerse myself in Philosophy, I never anticipated I would fall ill—not physically, but literarily. A few months into the term, I realised I had lost the ability to read for leisure. Completely.
The first signs emerged one afternoon at Blackwell’s. Surrounded by vibrant covers and bestselling titles, I searched for something—anything—to enjoy over the break. Yet I stood frozen, unable to choose. I needed a mental escape from my degree, but I couldn’t settle on a single book to read.
Before Oxford, I was a voracious reader. I devoured everything from shampoo labels and billboards to philosophical texts and romance novels. I once even defended the artistic merit of romance fiction in a classroom debate. To me, all books—no matter the genre—deserved love, scrutiny, and respect. Titles like Twilight, often dismissed, held a place in the literary landscape, and I believed even the most commercial fiction could carry meaning and purpose.
That enthusiasm, however, began to unravel at Oxford.
Suddenly, I found myself judgmental and overly selective. Romance novels felt too frivolous. Philosophical texts were too close to my academic reading to be relaxing. Science books didn’t interest me at all.
Worse still, the intensive reading demands of weekly tutorials and seminars left me mentally drained, and I developed a dependence on social media. Scrolling became my reward after essay submissions, my escape during awkward social encounters, and my daily habit. I wasn’t alone. Other students reported similar experiences—a collective erosion of our attention spans. It was clear: I had contracted a highly infectious modern malaise—what I call the Inability to Read for Leisure.
To be fair, this affliction wasn’t Oxford’s fault alone. I had willingly shifted toward visual, short-form content. The books that once brought me joy—the very ones that likely earned me a place at Oxford—now felt foreign.
And I missed them. I missed the weight of a novel in my hand on a rainy afternoon, the pleasure of rereading a line for its rhythm, the companionship of characters I once loved. I wanted that part of me back.
So, over the break, I designed a literary remedy: a three-book regimen to revive my reading appetite. My prescription? One beloved favourite, one light and kitschy title, and one challenging classic.
I began with When Breath Becomes Air by Paul Kalanithi—a book I first read in Year 7. Now older, I approached it with a deeper understanding of mortality and purpose. I cried again, just as I had as a girl, but for different reasons. Then, I feared death. Now, I feared it more, because I had so much more to live for.
Next came Almost French by Sarah Turnbull, a lighthearted pick from the Travel Writing section. It offered exactly what I expected—a French man, a culture clash, and plenty of clichés. Though the book was laced with generalisations that irked me as someone who’s studied French and spent time in France, it still resonated in one unexpected way: it captured the displacement and longing I feel as an international student, far from home.
Finally, I tackled 1984 by George Orwell. Recommended to me years earlier, I’d put it off until my 20-hour flight from Oxford to Ho Chi Minh City. As I alternated between reading, sleeping, and picking at airplane meals, Orwell’s dystopia held me captive. The novel—both intellectually rich and disturbingly relevant—became the most rewarding long-haul read of my life.
Each book in my regimen brought something vital back. Kalanithi reminded me why rereading is as meaningful as reading. Turnbull, despite her flaws, showed me how literature can reflect our desire for belonging. And Orwell bridged my studies in Linguistics and Philosophy, pushing me to confront questions of language, truth, and control.
By the time I landed at Tan Son Nhat airport, glasses off and Orwell’s novel closed in my lap, I realised I had done it. I had cured myself of the inability to read for leisure.
