Is the book too short to matter in a world of fast reading?
While scrolling through a post about a new book going on sale, a reader commented, “The book is only 300 pages long! What is there to read, why buy?” The remark lingered, inviting a deeper question: what makes a book feel worth the time? Critics like Galina Yuzefovich have recently noted a drop in the page counts of contemporary novels, a trend that spans genres but hits especially hard in what some call pseudo‑intellectual prose. The topic has clearly found a place in today’s information streams.
So, are readers getting less capable or less curious?
Radical conclusions often turn out to be mere wrappers for brighter headlines. The pace of modern life has changed dramatically. Cities, even smaller ones, pulse faster. Our information habits have shifted toward less, but richer, consumption. This shift touches everything from interviews to social media posts. Books are no exception.
The shift resembles a phenomenon known in English as “fast fashion” or, in the literary world, “speed reading.” This isn’t entirely new. Literature has long experimented with tempo, and journalism has marched to a quicker rhythm. In the United States during the 20th century, inexpensive books printed for one-time consumption were common, often discarded after a single reading. That era carried stamps like “pulp fiction” and the penny press, newspapers that chased the sensational rather than the substantial.
Speed reading does not equate to mass dullness. New habits spawn new forms of engagement, and speed reading has given rise to formats that have reshaped how readers experience books. If one imagines the task as a modern intellectual exercise, a modern way to affirm that reading vitality can coexist with conciseness, then two proofs suffice as a starting point.
First, the typical modern prose is often condensed to about 250–350 pages, though longer volumes over 700 pages still appear with some regularity. A curious example is Ekaterina Zvontsova’s “White Pawns,” which reached a TikTok audience because its core premise fits within a lean, accessible frame. The text’s density does not rely on page count alone; it relies on the way language is compressed to carry atmosphere and meaning. When space is tight, authors tend to pack more into each sentence, focusing on themes, emotions, and imagery rather than sprawling exposition. This tendency reflects not merely faster publishing cycles but a shift in how contemporary prose is constructed and read.
These densities are most evident in stories that travel through feelings, sensory experiences, and psychological states of characters. In Elena Popova’s “Eightieth Degree” (254 pages), a polar geologist’s diary-like narrative becomes a concentrated vessel for mood, mood shifts, and the Arctic atmosphere. Shamil Idiatullin’s “It’s Too Late to Be Afraid” (352 pages) presents a psychological novel wrapped in a hermetic time-loop mystery, where a compact volume enhances the impact of crucial details readers must piece together to unravel the central intrigue. The density of the writing amplifies a sense of hopelessness as the time loop tightens around the protagonist.
The personal dimension often feels more intimate in smaller books. When readers search for stories about themselves, shorter volumes can convey that immediacy more effectively. Larger tomes tend to expand personal history into broader, global narratives about one’s place in history and time.
Second, the phenomenon of speed reading has produced new, enduring formats that attract readers. Large multimedia projects—texts, comics, offline events, and social media activations—have become a staple in contemporary publishing. Projects like the collection Tales of Joy, Tales of Sorrow from book services exemplify how rapid, hybrid formats can thrive in a culture that prizes quick access. Audio series such as Cognata by Alexey Salnikov, Vaginova’s Room by Anton Seksov, Wonderland by Olga Ptitseva, and Kanashibari by Angelina and Veronica Shen illustrate formats designed for fast, enthusiastic consumption. Yet these formats do not sacrifice character psychology or social subtext; they add new dimensions to how stories unfold in sound and texture.
Blog coverage across formats, with vibrant visuals and punchy phrases, mirrors the speed-reading culture permeating publishers’ social networks. The aim is to grab attention, but the best work still invites deeper meaning and reflection. When readers are constantly on the move, they can still find nourishment in compelling narratives. The result is not a decline in intelligence, but a shift in how meaning is shaped and absorbed.
There remains space for slower reading too. For those who crave depth, volumes like Abraham Verghese’s The Testament of Water and Eduard Verkin’s Snark-Snark from last year offer extended reflection and slower pacing for those willing to linger with a book longer.
In the end, the experience of reading adapts to the reader as much as the reader adapts to the book. Shorter formats, dense writing, multimedia integrations, and expansive single-player narratives all coexist. The question is not whether readers get less smart, but whether they approach texts with different expectations, appetites, and rhythms. The literature of today reflects a diversity of speeds, and that variety is a testament to reading as a living practice rather than a fixed measure of intellect.
Note: The perspectives above reflect one reader’s viewpoint and may not align with all editorial positions.