A few years ago, I stepped back and wondered why I liked reading so much. There have always been some standard answers—usually with some buzz words or ideas pulled from someone else—but I’ve wanted to make an answer of my own, or at least one pertaining to my interests, habits, and loves. When I started a consistent, daily writing habit about a year ago, I felt the need to understand why I loved reading, stories, characters, novels, and any literature. If I want to write, I figured I’d better have a clear why for my writing as I hone my craft and work on the how. Over the last few weeks, my reflections over the last year started coming into focus, and I was seeing how most of my reading over the years has moved me.

I’ve been savoring John Steinbeck’s self-proclaimed “only book I have ever written,” East of Eden. Near the beginning of the book, Adam Trask and his wife Cathy recently moved to California, and he purchased a property from the Bordoni family. Adam sends his servant Lee over to Samuel Hamilton with a note to have him come over and inspect the best places for wells to be dug. Adam plans to hire Samuel to do the work since he’s new to California, its weather, watering, and farming practices. He’s heard that Samuel Hamilton is a man he can trust. While Samuel’s land isn’t good and doesn’t have water for wells to be built, he’s found water on other people’s properties. Instead of farming, he has to rely on his wits and imagination to provide for his family, so he invents things and works on solutions for others. His reputation for ingenuity and hard work makes him an asset to the area. So Adam sends Lee to the Hamilton place to fetch Samuel.

During this horse ride, Samuel learns that Lee is a Chinese man but he was born in California. He wonders why Lee wouldn’t have a better grasp of English after having been born here. Lee’s initial answer doesn’t satisfy him, and he sees through Lee’s act of playing the stereotypical Chinese man in a foreign place. He says as much to Lee, so Lee drops his pidgin English and speaks flawlessly without an accent. This switch comes as a surprise to Samuel, and he wonders how Lee could drop the accent and why he would do so with him while he keeps it up all other times. Lee said, “You are one of the rare people who can separate your observation from your preconception. You see what is, where most people see what they expect.”

I’m reminded here of Bishop Robert Barron’s commentary on Mark 1:14-15 in the Word on Fire Bible, Volume I. He highlights metanoia and shows how it can mean several things at once, one of which is taking on a new mode of seeing. Samuel sees things that others don’t; Lee recognizes this and feels seen. This interaction gives us much insight into the lives and choices of each of these men. We see Samuel for who he is—insightful, empathetic, and kind, not simply the man with crackpot ideas and a wild imagination; Lee puts on an act so that people feel comfortable and are confirmed in their expectations, but we also see the security and comfort he takes in doing it. When we read any literature, these moments of recognition between characters give us the chance to see them anew and with more depth, but we also learn how to see our family, our neighbor, our spouse, and our friends—perhaps even our enemies. Lee gives us a “new way of seeing” and reminds us that we so often live off our preconceptions and predictions.

I keep referring to “seeing,” “predictions,” “ways,” and “modes”—largely due to British psychiatrist Iain McGilchrist and how much I’ve been influenced by his writings on the brain’s hemispheric differences. He says that “Attention is a moral act,” and explains that each of the brain’s hemispheres sees the world differently. It’s not so much what we see, but how we see and what actions and choices arise. So, Samuel sees Lee and wants to know more about him; Lee sees Samuel and decides to drop his act. Lee makes himself more vulnerable and authentic to Samuel; Samuel in turn gives himself to the conversation and sincerely attempts to understand and live alongside him. Their attention drives the kind of interaction they have and how they give to one another; the moral dimension of their relationship grows from how they see each other. Their choices show who they are as men and what kind of a life they likely lead. In turn, we come to a deeper appreciation for the kind of man each of them is and we learn how we can act in a similar way.

Bishop Barron, Steinbeck, and Iain McGilchrist sharpened the focus and gave me a clear view of why I love literature: because it shows us how to see from another’s eyes. Each person’s perspective in a work shows the multiplicity of the cosmos, and we’re able to wonder at its beauty and horror, its sorrow and grandeur. Then we see the tension, difficulties, and choices that crop up along the way. Literature shows the embodiment of someone seeing, considering, and acting; their lives are models and we live alongside them for a time.

Not only have these reflections helped me understand why I love literature, but I’ve seen my writing have a much stronger grounding for how I want to write and why I love writing, which has been so humbling. I can’t simply think about the process and what’s to be done, but I have to see, consider, and live alongside my characters. I want to encounter each of them as an individual with a history, a world around them, and depth and immensity. I want to experience how they see the world and the kind of things they choose to do as a result.

And that’s what’s phenomenal about literature: we enter into the lives of others and experience it with them. Then, their next steps take us on adventures into worlds unknown and unseen and unheard.

Levi Baus was born in South Dakota and has lived north and south along the Great Plains, now in Lincoln, Nebraska. He enjoys time with his family, cooking, reading, and writing. He endeavors to explore the landscapes of his heart and those he meets in books or writes in stories.