Whenever there’s a book club meeting at my university, I can’t help but notice something that bothers me — books have become a trend. I see shelves filled with titles that are popular, yet painfully shallow. It feels as though books are no longer read for joy, not for imagination, nor for the flow of ideas and knowledge — but simply because they’re aesthetic.
To me, books have always been a reflection of who we are — our thoughts, our values, our inner world. But lately, they’ve become accessories for validation rather than vessels of meaning.
So many good classics have been forgotten, buried beneath piles of fleeting trends. Authors who deserve far more recognition — Bonnie Garmus, Penelope Fitzgerald, Parini Shroff, Kalki Krishnamoorthy — remain underrated, despite being profoundly talented and opinionated voices. Meanwhile, namesake bestsellers (coughs Colleen Hoover) are endlessly praised for stories that often lack depth or enduring resonance.
It’s disheartening to see the art of reading reduced to a social aesthetic rather than a soulful experience. What do you think — has reading become more about appearances than appreciation?
