In late 19th-century Britain, Londoners experienced something quite remarkable—up to 12 postal deliveries a day. It was not uncommon for letters to be swapped back and forth with the kind of frequency we now associate with email. Dive into the archives, and you’ll find handwritten notes arranging dinner plans in the morning, bickering over details by midday, and reconciling disagreements all before dusk.
Often, we envision the pre-digital world as similar to today, minus a constant bombardment from screens. But those times had their own kind of chaos. Picture ink-splattered letters written in a hurry, filling doorsteps multiple times a day. Even the most leisurely of individuals might have felt overwhelmed by the sheer volume of mail.
Distraction is a hot topic in today’s digital age, and it’s a genuine concern, especially for the younger generations. It’s precisely why I established the Centre for Attention Studies, to explore this very issue.
Recently, I stumbled upon an article in the Atlantic by Rose Horowitch, intriguingly titled “The elite college students who can’t read books”. She observed that modern students struggle to focus, even on something as concise as a sonnet. In many US schools, there’s a shift from reading full literary texts to studying short passages. It’s all about improving information skills directly applicable to careers.
But what if we look at today’s attention challenges through a historical lens? It might be comforting for those worried about our inability to sit through a classical music concert to know that 18th-century symphonies weren’t designed for unwavering attention. Medieval monks, long before smartphones, also struggled with distraction, in the form of a demon they called Titivillus.
The narrative of declining attention spans isn’t new; it’s been around since modernity’s dawn. Early 20th-century critic Ezra Pound linked the shift from poetry to prose to a distracted public, one that skimmed rather than delved deep: “The art of popular success lies simply in never putting more on any one page than the most ordinary reader can lick off it in his normally rapid, half-attentive skim-over.”
On a recent BBC Today programme, author Jonathan Bate discussed how today’s education systems often produce students who can’t commit to novels. For Bate, the casualties are concentration and critical thinking skills. Reading long novels, he claims, benefits mental health. He reminisces about a time when he could assign students the Herculean task of reading three lengthy Dickens novels in a week. With such hefty word counts, even speed reading would barely allow for deep reflection while offering little comfort to one’s mental well-being.
Horowitch suggests that the issue isn’t necessarily a drop in reading long texts, but rather a change in how content is consumed. Some professors liken reading books today to listening to vinyl—enjoyed by a niche audience but largely seen as outdated. Meanwhile, audiobooks are gaining popularity. Her article challenges the notion of a reading crisis, proposing instead a shift in priorities: “Students can still read books […] they’re just choosing not to.” Perhaps the novel cherished by older generations is becoming an undertaking for today’s youth, akin to how 18th-century literature appeared to 1990s students.
We shouldn’t be complacent about these changes. It’s crucial to recognize both the gains and losses our changing focus brings, and who stands to win or lose in this new era of attention. Are we sacrificing empathy and understanding for efficiency if our education system favors information processing over immersing in fictional worlds?
Moreover, it’s time to rethink the types of attention we value and why. Unifocal, or focused attention, isn’t the only type—and isn’t always best. The “Invisible Gorilla Experiment” by Chabris and Simons showed how focusing intensively can blind us to unexpected events—like a gorilla sauntering across a basketball court. A broader focus might exercise different mental faculties, offering unique benefits.
Could younger generations be developing new attention modes that older ones overlook but which provide new advantages? Think of the snappy back-and-forth in instant messaging, the art of concise expression in tweets, or the physical and mental agility honed by video games. Then there’s the collective focus nurtured in online spaces.
We must remain critical of modern attention economies’ pitfalls. However, history can guide us in adapting how we create and engage with culture. In our rapidly changing world, perhaps we can also find potential in new attention practices, turning them into forces for good both socially and individually.
