On Reading Literature: Thoughts for Pope Francis

'While the pope sees reading literature as a valuable counterbalance to “screens,” the truth is that a screens-based culture has undermined reading.'

From Crisis

By John M. Grodelski, PhD

Pope Francis recently wrote a letter on the role of literature in priestly formation, but a former associate dean of a Catholic seminary thinks it should have gone deeper.

Pope Francis wrote a letter July 17 “on the role of literature in formation.” He admits straightaway what he really has in mind is its role in priestly formation (#1) but recognizes it has a broader application. Long story short, the pope recommends reading literature as a way of understanding others, listening to “others’ voices,” engaging in discernment, and reflecting on faith and culture. No argument there.

In the letter, the pope thinks some seminaries have pursued this path in order to get students off screens (#4), with all the downsides they bring, including attenuated attention spans, diminished self-control caused by the “click-bait” phenomenon, and other toxic behaviors. Again, no argument.

I don’t fundamentally disagree with where the pope wants to go. (I am surprised he does not cite Hans Urs von Balthasar who, more than Rahner and certainly Spadaro, has addressed questions of literature and faith). I still remember the valuable advice about reading literature that my graduate adviser at Fordham, Fr. Sabbas Kilian, O.F.M., gave me: reading literature also made one a better writer. I take the pope’s letter as an invitation to push this question further. 

Three thoughts:

Reading. While the pope sees reading literature as a valuable counterbalance to “screens,” the truth is that a screens-based culture has undermined reading. Screens are not just a different information “delivery mode.” They erode habits essential to reading books.  

I have always thought there to be a value in open-stacks libraries. Being able to wander the rows with no particular goal (or even a very particular one) always left the chance opportunity to discover some other path, another question. Algorithmic searches may pinpoint the immediate answer I want, but they do little to stimulate larger questions. “Knowledge” gained that way is useful but limited because satiating an immediate need does not kindle broader curiosity. And that’s before we talk about how algorithms steer supposedly “lifelong, independent inquirers” (some of the current pedagogical babble) down others’ predetermined narrow paths.  

Reading requires time. Screens consume time. They rarely foster the time habits essential to reading. Reading requires staying engaged, “sticking to” the text, even when the text goes on some descriptive detour. There’s a reason (apart from the vocabulary challenges) American students generally don’t read 19th-century literature: James Fenimore Cooper and Nathaniel Hawthorne just don’t write like they were bloggers.  

The screen never disappears in the way a book does. For books, the text is the thing, the paper product merely the vehicle. For screens, the medium is as important as the message. It structures how you approach the text. Books don’t entice you to skip around; clickable screens do. True, you can jump all around in a book (which is why I never review books for which I only get an electronic version) but, ordinarily, most people usually don’t. (On the flip side, when I want to compare thoughts in a book I’m reviewing, I want to open two or three pages simultaneously. Try that with your Kindle!)

So, yes—Pope Francis—get students off screens to read. But realize you are going to have to teach a screens generation a whole new way of reading.

Curricular Demands. I was the associate dean of a Catholic seminary. Seminary curricula are demanding. Most semesters in the four-year post-college seminary program we provided required 15-18 credits; 12 credits is considered a full-time load in normal graduate schools. 

The Program of Priestly Formation is detailed in what subject matter it expects to be covered. Add on top of that: spiritual formation (including liturgy and prayer); apostolic formation (time in parishes or learning to work with the sick, prisoners, etc.); normal community time (one reason you have a seminary is to form the normal human bonds priests in a diocese or religious community will need throughout their lives). None of these things can get short shrift, not just because that would be reflected in the dreaded “evaluation” but because they really are necessary. But—even for seminarians—the Lord God has only put 24 hours in a day. Where do you fit “literature reading”?

During my time as associate dean, we undertook one “curriculum reform.” Seminary professors are no different from their secular counterparts when it comes to defending turf in terms of required courses. We cut three: all taught by adjuncts.

Once upon a time, the Program of Priestly Formation anticipated seminarians entering major theology to have completed something of a liberal arts undergraduate program with at least 18 credits of philosophy. That is increasingly not the case. They need the philosophy to understand the theology. They need the liberal arts to be educated leaders. Where do you put that if it didn’t happen at the undergrad level?

I take an example from my university. As a private Catholic university, in theory we could be selective. But, as is commonplace across America, colleges and universities are getting high school graduates incapable of doing college-level mathematics or English writing. Many schools enroll 1/5 to 1/3 of their freshman class in remediation (i.e., extra coursework designed to provide what they should have had in grade or high school). 

Lament all you want; we have to repair what “should have” happened but didn’t before we can go on. The same is true in seminaries, compounded by increased numbers of foreign students who need English as a Second Language and American acculturation. Tell all that to the bishop who still wants his man in four years. One thing almost certain: that guy isn’t going to be reading T.S. Eliot.

Literary Availability. I am translating Roman Brandstaetter, a 20th-century canonical Polish author with a large literary religious corpus. A Jew who became a Christian, his writings are rife with allusions to the Old and New Testaments. He is also an accomplished novelist, dramatist, and short-story writer. I have to add a considerable number of footnotes because I fear the average Anglo-American reader—product of religiously sanitized schools—simply will not get the references.

Sometimes I ask myself: Why am I doing this? I’ve been at it for seven years. I have no idea who will eventually publish the translations. Fifty years ago, we had serious Catholic publishers that put out serious religious works, including Catholic fiction:  Image Books; Sheed and Ward; even our Catholic university presses.

Well, most of them are gone. The universities are advancing “diversity” by all focusing on a very narrow subset of subjects. The remaining Catholic publishers today largely focus on self-help books, superficial polemics of the kind Francis criticizes, or whatever the moment thinks “practical.”  

If Graham Greene wrote The Heart of the Matter 75 years later, in 2022 instead of 1948, it might get published (if it passed the “colonialist” criticism) because Americans have a thing for the English. But if Georges Bernanos wrote The Diary of a Country Priest or François Mauriac Vipers’ Tangle today, who would pay to translate, much less publish it? There are reprint specialists, but Francis needs to ask: How do we print the books he wants seminarians to read?