On the first lecture of my undergraduate degree I sat in front of two students who were quite annoyed as the lecturer informed us that we are expected to read a novel a week, some poetry, and critical material on top of that to meet the course requirements. And I remember being surprised that someone who dislikes reading would choose to study English Literature at university.
But still it is surely not too presumptuous to assume that most people who chose the subject do so out of a love of reading (certainly, they cannot do it for the career prospects). But what happens to this love of reading over time? Most of my academic reading is, quite frankly, rather dull. And the texts that I produce are no better. It has been so long since I read a text for the pure pleasure of reading that I yesterday intuitively concluded that entertainment and literature (properly understood) stand in opposition to one another. Whatever the point of literary writing is, it is definitely not to entertain. Conversely, texts that primarily seek to entertain thereby forfeit their claim on the holy grail of the Literary.
What kind of psychological uncertainty have I put to rest with the conclusion that reading is not fun, or ceases to be reading the moment it becomes fun?
(The difficulty of thinking is also worth thinking about).
Thoughts fallen by the wayside 