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“This week’s reading assignment: Yuri Herrera’s ‘Trabajos del Reino.’ Come to class prepared for discussion.” And so we did. We touched gender, art, power, fairy tales. The novella describes a drug cartel through the language and structure of a medieval kingdom. It gave us a platform to investigate problems old and contemporary, to debate solutions theoretical and practical.

I read fiction because of works like this. Fiction is often seen as a simple break from “real” reading. We sit, move our eyes from left to right, then reset them like a typewriter to read the next line. We enjoy a good story without learning anything beyond common sense or that holds value on our increasingly STEM-focused campus. But these arguments ignore how we can learn about life from fiction, discover who we are as individuals, and explore how we come together as societies.

Before I go any further, let me emphatically state that reading passively — that is, principally for entertainment value — is valid: We don’t criticize people when they watch a movie for the story instead of analyzing the effectiveness of color choices or variation in cinematic techniques, do we? But we must not discount the value of fiction as a learning tool.

From self-help books to autobiographies, countless works of nonfiction claim to teach readers about self improvement, promising friends, money, and knowledge. They posit themselves as an unimpeachable authority, giving the reader advice as a doctor would. Perhaps their advice is valuable, perhaps it is common sense, but they place their ideas and solutions as definitive and superior. With fiction, however, readers are encouraged to think independently and challenge the text. What is the message? Is the message true and justified? Are these characters fundamentally good? Is the narrator reliable, and how could that change the story’s message? And readers can remember what they learned because fiction is accompanied by a story purposefully crafted to be relatable and memorable. Even “How to Win Friends and Influence People” will tell you: “This is the day of dramatization. Merely stating a truth isn’t enough. The truth has to be made vivid, interesting, dramatic. You have to use showmanship. The movies do it. Television does it.” And fiction does it too.

Nonfiction is not valueless: Almost every job requires nonfiction. Even literary critics study the lives of authors and the contexts of their works. Nonfiction has an intrinsic value: I will learn facts. Fiction, on the other hand, is often perceived as intrinsically pretentious, as being inaccessible to people without formal language or literature education. But, in reality, it’s about the individual experience of reading. Yes, discussing literature with a classroom of perceptive students can be extremely valuable, but let’s recognize that fiction teaches us about ourselves, both individually and collectively. It not only fosters individual empathy but teaches us about universal ideas: power, love, family, truth.

Just as we learn the value of freedom and equality by studying the Jim Crow-era South in a U.S. history class, we learn the struggles of oppression and identity from Ralph Ellison’s “Invisible Man.” Just as scientific studies warn us against antibiotic resistant bacteria, Orwell’s “1984” warns against censorship and surveillance. Fiction, here, mirrors life. In this way, fiction allows people to explore areas in which they may not have as much interest or expertise without compromising entertainment or complexity. You don’t need to understand the structure, powers, and mechanisms of the CIA to understand Big Brother or Newspeak. For this reason, fiction isn’t inaccessible to the average person. Accessing fiction doesn’t require training; fiction individualizes the foreign. Fiction is a primary vessel that creates accessibility, allowing you to sail through uncharted seas and see truths about life.

So, don’t discount fiction. Remember reading “Catcher in the Rye” in high school? Hate it? Still rant about it when a friend brings it up, or feel a fire grow in your stomach when someone mentions it? Did you vow to never touch a novel, poem, or short story for the rest of your life? Whatever your “Catcher in the Rye” is, pick up a copy and keep it around for the next time you have an hour or two. And then read it.

Noah D. Secondo ’22, a Crimson Editorial editor, lives in Pennypacker Hall.