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for 10th Throughout the year, my New Year’s resolution has been to read more books. Ideally, as I tell myself during these protean early weeks of January, 2026, he will be remembered for lazy evenings on the couch, poring over the list of novels that crowd the modest capacity of my living room shelves, perhaps with a glass of Scotch placed on a coaster. I delight in imagination—I dream of finally coming out A union of dunces, or eliminate the last two entries of broken earth Trilogy, or making time for that Patti Smith memoir I bought more than a decade ago. If I’m really feeling myself, I’ll consider aiming even higher. Tolstoy? Pynchon? I mean, there’s that copy of it too yellow king He My coffee table has been turning yellow for some time now.
And yet, I already know how this saga is going to end. The year will end with a large number of new entries in my Goodreads, disappointingly inconsistent with the size of my bibliophile ambitions. Ask me why I never read as much as I’d like, and I can point to the well-worn troubles of modernity – the ballooning screen time, the addictive algorithms, the distracted attention spans. But a fundamental issue I have with literature is much deeper. In fact, I think it’s more common than anyone would like to admit. Why is it that no matter what I do, I can never get comfortable while reading a book?
Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about. This is a species-wide affliction. What is widely considered to be the first published novel in history story of genji, a court drama written at the end of 11th century by the Japanese nobleman Murasaki Shikibu. A millennium after his amazing brain-expanding invention, humanity still has not been able to conceive of an ergonomically sound way to consume the written word. I, like you, lie on my back with a novel propped up until my arms become tense, restless, and unable to maintain balance. I’ve also sat in a chair with a book open on my lap, until the severe angle stiffened my neck and reinforced the terrible truth that the furniture was never meant to support the literary necessity of looking downwards. Of course, there’s always the option of turning onto your stomach, letting your elbows sink into the mattress, carpet, or couch cushions. This works as a mantra, until it becomes clear that your body lies on a tired, low-impact plank while, in the pages below, Raskolnikov swings his ax and murders everyone in sight.
I cycle through all these postures again and again, hoping to eventually crack the code – unlocking the sublime zen of the novel, the imaginary joys of reading. When I called my friends and coworkers to see if they could relate to my plight, I immediately learned that we were all engaged in this meaningless journey. Brian Lowder, associate editor of Slate, recalled that while reading an extremely cumbersome hardcover book collected earth ocean In the novels, he is forced to place three pillows in front of his headboard and one on his stomach to keep his body healthy while tracing Sparrowhawk’s adventures. My friend Laura Grasso—a costume designer, and a woman who recently completed Brothers Karamazov-Has developed a complex anthropomorphic plan in which she rests her entire body on the padded slope of a sofa armrest, and the book is delicately balanced in her eye line. (“I try to go full diagonal,” she said. “It’s the most optimal approach by far.”) Others have developed a Stockholm syndrome-esque relationship with the pain of reading, interpreting pain as a sign of virtue. Tony Ho Tran, senior editor at Slate, said he was of the opinion that she “needs to be a little uncomfortable” in order to focus on her literature. “Give me a weird wooden dining chair,” he announced. “Give me a plastic seat on the train when I travel.”
Surely it shouldn’t be this way, right? Shouldn’t we, as a species, have evolved to acquire some kind of natural lumbar support or some bracing calluses to aid in the time-honored tradition of reading printed words on paper? Could it be that Moses, descending from Mount Sinai with the stone tablets consecrated by God himself, developed a pain in his neck while reciting the Ten Commandments? Well, according to Ryan Steiner, a physical therapist at the Cleveland Clinic, the answer is yes. Reading, as it turns out, takes the body into completely unnatural ways. None of us can do anything.
“To be honest, we’re not meant to stay in one position for a long time, even if it’s a comfortable position,” Steiner said. “You should change positions often when you are reading. I recommend you get up and move around from time to time.”
Steiner happily broke down the physics for me. Our nervous system is wired with tiny electrical sensors called “mechanoreceptors.” These nerves alert our body to how we are stretching, pressing, or otherwise adding stress to our soft tissues. This is true if you’re doing deadlifts, and it’s also true if you’re holding a book in front of your face. “After a while, those receptors send a message to your brain like, ‘Hey, there’s something going on here, this doesn’t feel natural, you need to take action,'” Steiner said. This is when we adjust our dimensions to find a more comfortable position, repeating the circuit over and over again until we have a book in hand. It may seem surprising to you that a novel can exert as much stress on our bodies as, say, a bag of concrete, but given enough time, Steiner is quick to remind me of this. Anything Can be cumbersome.
“A little bit of force can still make a big difference. If you’re holding something relatively light — like a 3-pound weight — at your side, you can do that for hours. But if you’re holding it in front of your face? You won’t be able to hold it for even a minute.”
For what it’s worth, the forces of technology are growing to meet the problem of reading. We’ve all heard of bookstands that can be installed over the bed or in the bathroom, allowing one’s hands to be occupied by a cold Pinot Noir while surveying a sticky romance novel. But those who prefer to read on tablets have taken matters too far. I reached out to Chelsea Stone, who works for CNN, and who recently reviewed a truly revolutionary device that fastened her e-reader to a modular silicone mount. As she lay in bed she moved the crane’s neck over her mattress, causing the tablet to hover gracefully before her eyes. Stone used a Bluetooth remote to turn the pages. His hands never needed to leave the covers. It was an airtight cocoon of literary bliss, reminiscent of those mobile lounge chairs used by immobile refugees Wall-E. The stone had made the human threshold obsolete – making those damn mechanoreceptors disappear forever.
Stone said, “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve fallen asleep with a book in my hands and woken up when the book hits my forehead.” “Stand gives me the freedom to read in any situation at the moment.”
And yet Stone, an avid book lover, tells me she still loves reading books the old-fashioned way. I can understand why. A mount to house your Kindle might be physically prudent, but spiritually it seems weak to me. Finally, I love reading for the many literary benefits of reading; The way ritual can brighten an ordinary day. Consider the accidental discovery of a perfect corner – a coffee shop, a park, a beach – ready for whatever novel you’re carrying in your backpack. Time stops, and your imagination cracks open. When I lie on my side, my hip flexors plead for mercy and quiet my mind. We have been reading books for thousands of years. Obviously, it must be worth it Pain.
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