In a literary landscape obsessed with volume metrics and year-end lists, Sara Hildreth offers a radical counter-narrative: the deliberate act of reading fewer books to read them better. This piece is not merely a status report on a reading list; it is a philosophical defense of slowness and intentionality in an era of accelerated consumption. For the busy professional seeking to reclaim their attention, Hildreth's admission that she has read 118 books instead of 160 is not a failure, but a strategic victory for depth over breadth.
The Architecture of Slowness
Hildreth begins by dismantling the rigid calendar expectations that often drive our anxiety. She writes, "I just have a weird relationship to the calendar where I view December as a liminal month," choosing to wind down her year-end thoughts early to grant herself a December with no goals. This reframing of December as an "in-between month" rather than a deadline is a crucial psychological tool. It allows the reader to step off the treadmill of productivity before the year even ends. The argument here is that the pressure to perform, even in leisure, is counterproductive to the very act of reading.
The core of her 2025 intention was quality over quantity. She notes, "I am particularly happy to have slowed down my Paperback Summer Reading Guide reading," observing that while other years resulted in forgotten titles, this year's guide books remain favorites. This shift from speed to savoring is the piece's most compelling insight. By adopting an "English major hat," she engaged with texts more deliberately, annotating without being precious. As Hildreth puts it, "I don't think every book needs to be savored or annotated or pored over, but I am happy to have done more of those things this year."
Critics might argue that slowing down reduces the total cultural literacy one can achieve in a year, potentially creating an echo chamber of familiar texts. However, Hildreth's data suggests the opposite: deeper engagement with fewer books creates a more durable and meaningful intellectual foundation than skimming a hundred titles.
I don't think every book needs to be savored or annotated or pored over, but I am happy to have done more of those things this year.
The Selection Paradox
The second major theme explores the difficulty of being "choosey" in an age of algorithmic overwhelm. Hildreth admits to the anxiety of the "end-of-year book insanity," questioning whether reading only nine of the New York Times' 100 Notable Books means she was being selective or foolishly missing out. "I may never know!" she writes, capturing the universal dread of the "fear of missing out" that plagues modern readers.
Her strategy involved relying on trusted human curators rather than broad lists. She identifies Elisabeth Schmidt as her "editorial North Star," choosing to follow the work of specific editors rather than chasing trends. This approach mirrors the historical practice of scholars who, like those studying the complexities of Paradise Lost, often rely on specific commentaries and editions to navigate dense texts rather than attempting to read every contemporary variation. Hildreth's pivot toward books in translation and small presses further illustrates a desire to diversify her intellectual diet beyond the mainstream canon.
However, she acknowledges a tension in her methodology. While she intended to use a spreadsheet to track new releases, she admits, "I totally stopped doing this by the end of the year." This highlights a common pitfall in intentionality: the system itself can become a burden. A counterargument worth considering is that without a structured system, even the most well-intentioned reader might drift back toward passive consumption. Yet, Hildreth's willingness to abandon the spreadsheet suggests that flexibility is more valuable than rigid adherence to a plan.
Writing, Living, and the Weight of the World
The final section of the commentary addresses the intersection of personal habits and the broader political climate. Hildreth is candid about her struggle with writing, noting that she hasn't felt as inspired to produce her "Reading in Public" essays. She attributes this partly to a lack of engagement with other writers' thoughts, stating, "Essays about the state of reading and literature are often where I find sparks of ideas for my own essays, and I just haven't been reading those as much this year."
This introspection extends to her personal life, where she connects her desire for intentional living to the "ongoing anxiety over what the next several years will look like" following recent political shifts. She writes, "Since the election, all the cabinet appointments, and the ongoing anxiety... I have been feeling a deep desire to be more intentional and to live in a way that aligns more with my values." This is a powerful reframing of the hobbyist impulse. Her attempt to learn mahjong or ice skate is not just about filling time; it is a deliberate act of grounding oneself in the physical world amidst digital and political chaos. It echoes the historical resilience found in the court of Richard III, where the stakes of survival and the need for personal agency were often high, yet the pursuit of personal joy and community remained a vital, if overlooked, form of resistance.
Hildreth admits to failing at some goals, such as volunteering as a family, but celebrates the small wins: "Leaving the house with our kid almost always takes a great exertion of energy, but it's also almost always worth it." This honest assessment of the gap between intention and action provides a realistic model for the reader. It suggests that the value lies not in perfect execution, but in the continuous effort to align one's life with one's values.
Leaving the house with our kid almost always takes a great exertion of energy, but it's also almost always worth it.
Bottom Line
Sara Hildreth's reflection succeeds because it treats reading as a practice of living rather than a metric of achievement. Its strongest argument is that slowing down and curating one's intake is a necessary response to a world that demands constant, shallow engagement. The piece's vulnerability lies in its reliance on individual willpower to resist systemic pressures, yet it offers a practical, human-scale blueprint for reclaiming attention in an age of distraction.