Living under all the pandemic restrictions forces students to make many adjustments—some of them, perhaps, still being discovered in these early weeks, others not fully expected when you returned to the Hill. The loss of so many activities and interactions should lead to an especially keen focus on reading, on “your books,” what you are assigned. Doing all of the reading, and more intensively. Some of this may be involuntary. But much of it’s up to you.

There are differing opinions about what is most fundamental in a class. But in many fields, a good case can be made that the readings are the heart of the course. This year is an especially good time to take that possibility more seriously—and, as a result, to begin a lifetime’s habit of consistently careful reading. Which would also be likely to improve, and continue to improve, your writing.

Truly careful reading must generally be slow. And, especially in college, with a sophisticated dictionary immediately available—which you’re willing to use at any doubtful point. When Alexis de Tocqueville says, in Democracy in America, that he sought “the society of priests” in order to learn more about religious life in this country, he doesn’t mean that he got in touch with an association of them. He means that he associated with clergymen, talked with them.

Such examples of possible misinterpretation in college-level reading are endless. Even simple words will often have two or more wholly different meanings, even in current books. The importance of this verbal complexity in a liberal arts education, as both a challenge and an opportunity to grow your understanding, is hard to overstate.

For a very long time in undergraduate education, it has been a commonplace, even something like an orthodoxy, to say “you learn so much from discussion” with other students. Probably all of us have learned much from discussion, from those around us in classes and elsewhere. If it’s done right, with patient, conscientious listening, it’s essential. But careful reading can be a discussion too—even though it’s the most socially distanced kind imaginable.

Books are, after all, the work of actual people, usually one person. The author is often somebody about whom a book (or parts of a book) or articles have been written, or at least an interview, or a speech or talk, published or recorded. The book probably also has a preface or introduction, and may well have an acknowledgements section, with personal material. You can, therefore, get to know the author to a meaningful extent without much extra effort. And the book, or much of it, is often saying what this usually dedicated and talented person wants most to say. In addition, it’s often what they have prepared for decades to say, investing many years in acquiring the knowledge, and ability, to make their books or articles professionally credible.

It is therefore reasonable, and may be quite intellectually enabling and quite motivating, to regard your books as not just words, but very consciously as speech on a page by a real human being. And indeed, in many cases, strongly felt speech, even if the style is moderate and controlled. To which you can, of course, and sometimes should, respond silently as you read. Responding, though, as if the author hears you—and can agree or disagree with your comments. No masks required.

Dr. Frisk is a Resident Fellow at the Alexander Hamilton Institute (AHI) in Clinton.