Reading between information and transformation

In the ancient and medieval Western world, reading was an act of profound engagement—physical, intellectual, and spiritual.

It was often performed aloud.

St Augustine famously described watching his mentor Ambrose read silently, marveling at the “eyes moving over the pages while his heart searched for meaning,” an act so rare it struck him as almost unnatural.

Reading was primarily a communal activity, whether in the public forum, the monastery, or the family (for the literate elite), where words were shared aloud, inviting listeners to participate in the text’s unfolding.

This out-loud practice reflects a deeper truth about premodern reading: it was ruminative and meditative. Words were meant to be savored, chewed over like cud, as the Latin ruminare suggests.

Monastic practices like lectio divina transformed scripture into a means of transcending the self, as readers were drawn into a divine reality.

Reading was not merely to know but to become—a participatory act aimed at transformation rather than information. Adverbial, rather than substantive.

The scarcity of books only heightened this intensity.

Manuscripts were costly treasures, painstakingly copied and preserved, making every word precious.

Reading’s secondary role in this period is key.

Texts were not meant to express the individuality of the reader but to connect them to a greater tradition. Medieval scribes often wrote glosses in the margins, dialoguing with previous generations. As John of Salisbury argued, they stood “on the shoulders of giants,” interpreting texts as part of a collective endeavour.

To read was to step into a sacred lineage, an act of humility and communal belonging.

This model of reading as a transcendent practice shifted dramatically in the modern era.

The invention of the printing press democratized books but also individualized reading. Silent reading became the norm, and texts were consumed in private. The rise of literacy and the availability of cheap paper accelerated the pace of reading, favoring breadth over depth.

Today, we often read to inform or entertain ourselves rather than to commune with something greater. We seek information, rather than transformation.

In a world saturated with information, have we lost the sacred dimensions of reading? What might we rediscover if we reclaimed reading as meditation—a practice of connection rather than consumption?