Netflix and Kill: Do You Also Struggle to Finish a Book Today?

POV

Netflix and Kill: Do You Also Struggle to Finish a Book Today?

Illustration: Robin Chakraborty

F

ifteen minutes into reading this year’s Man Booker-winner Flights, by Polish author Olga Tokarczuk, the words on the page in front of me started to blur. Sentences merged into one another, and created a new unfathomable language. With furrowed brows, I tried to concentrate. I owed it to the book because it had received rave reviews; one critic had described it as “a passionate and enchantingly discursive plea for meaningful connectedness, for the acceptance of fluidity, mobility, illusoriness,” which I imagine means “It’s a good read.” However, a few more words in, I shut the book, yawned, stretched, and started browsing Netflix.

How did I get to this point? I’ve always been a reader. It started with a bunch of Enid Blytons my mother gave me when I was a child. I opened them and would instantly be transported to the land of elves, fairies, tea parties, scones, and magic. I’d devour books in one go – such was the hunger, such was the joy.

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