Literature Will Not Save Us

I wanted to write about books. But I didn’t feel ashamed that readers aren’t reading—because before the readers fell silent, the writers did.

Let’s get one thing clear first: books don’t save us. Sometimes, they even drag us deeper down. But that sinking—that’s what stirs something inside us. Because we shouldn’t approach books to be cleansed, but to be stained. Every sentence we read should leave a mark on our minds. A stain that can’t be erased—one that leaves traces, sometimes painful, sometimes shameful. That’s why literature should never be as naive as simply saying, “I love reading books.”

Literature is not a trend. If you’re buying books just to take a photo of a nicely decorated shelf, you’re not engaging with literature—you’re participating in consumerism. And that’s not your fault, or mine. It’s just that we were taught how to take pictures with books, not how to love them.

But a good book should not decorate you. It should break you. It should turn you inside out and show you your own face. When you finish a book, you should fall silent, speak a little less, feel a little more ashamed. The best books make you a bit better—or maybe a bit worse—but they never leave you the same.

So what are we doing now? We read, but we don’t feel. Sentences don’t touch our skin. Because writers have become brief, like social media posts. And books—most of them—are either repetitive, lazy, or written solely to sell.

What we truly need is literature that touches the spirit of the youth—literature that shakes them, unsettles them, but also strengthens them and makes them question. And that kind of literature isn’t stylishly designed self-help books. It’s the kind of book where, on every page, you find yourself thinking, “Who gave you the right to say this to me?”

And in the end, what remains? A re