"Will Books be the New Records?" by Roy Edward Jackson

Roy Jackson is an ICTE Board Member At-Large

As an avid vinyl record collector, I fully recognize the privilege I carry when I do not hesitate to spend over thirty dollars, or more, on a rare colored press of something I already own. Most record collectors I know are of some means of affluence, able to budget or not worry about the high cost of their hobby. While I am not a wealthy person, I am an educator for goodness’ sake, I do indulge in this love of mine. While I can download music at a third or less of the cost, there is something special about records. The album cover art cannot be replicated with the same impact digitally, the act of placing it on my turntable, placing the needle on the platter, and hearing that ever-so sound wholly unique to vinyl. Music is still accessible to all who have access to the internet, to radio, and to digital devices; however, I indulge myself as I lean into the thought of the creative endeavor musical artists went into ordering the songs I cannot reorder on this permanent, unchangeable medium.

I fear this will be the future of printed books and long form reading. Something for the affluent and not for all. 

Seeking some confirmation of my fears on JSTOR, I ran across an article in The English Journal by D. Watts, “What’s Happening with Reading?” Watts noted the impact outside activities had on high school students, that accessibility was an issue with regard to transportation to libraries, that condensation and excerpt reading was taking hold, and the debate surrounding radio, movies, and TV. The author noted that “we are living today in the midst of a communication revolution” (p. 127). The publication of the article was March, 1954. And it is all too familiar today. Or is it just hyperbole we all engage in when technological advances occur?

JSTOR offered other interesting reads in Education Week, where Sarah Schwartz (2025) noted that almost one-third of American classrooms, grades 3-8, relied primarily on excerpts, many from Basel reader series. Writing in Psychology Today, Liz Stillwaggon (2024) noted that college students do not read anymore, citing technology, standardized tests, and overscheduling as the three primary reasons.

This all rings true. In my developmental literacy course at my liberal arts college, I have asked English majors what book they are reading outside of classes, or recently read, and the answer usually has been, “I don’t read books.” As a former English major and graduate student of English, I am befuddled by the current crop of English majors who willingly admit they do not read books. To be clear, I do not claim all English majors answer this way, rather only the select few who have taken my course over the last three years. At my institution, in one of our CORE courses, some instructors have scaled back the required novel to only reading “excerpts” or select chapters of it for a variety of reasons.

Recently, New College of Florida announced that Homer’s Odyssey will now be required reading for all first-year students. While I hesitate to praise a place where the state takeover of this public liberal arts institution occurred, the decision to require a classical text for incoming students is a notable exception. In an era where long-form reading is increasingly sidelined for excerpts, summaries, or digital skimming, requiring The Odyssey signals a deliberate commitment to engaging students with sustained, challenging texts. 

I had the pleasure of hearing Roosevelt Montás, author of Rescuing Socrates, speak about the Great Books program at Columbia University he oversees. He emphasized how encountering these classical works in conversation with one another shapes critical thinking and moral imagination. Recently, I have read of professors returning to print books out of concern that digital copies allow students to have devices open during discussions and finding out they rely on AI to produce answers in the moment to discussion instead of engaging with the reading themselves, undermining organic classroom conversation. The experience of immersion in a single work, much like listening to a vinyl record from start to finish, offers depth, context, and aesthetic appreciation that cannot be replicated through fragments, screens, or shortcuts. In a landscape where many undergraduates admit to rarely reading books outside of class, this requirement stands as a rare affirmation of the value of deliberate, uninterrupted engagement with literature.

My conundrum is this: does going back to long form reading, including some classical texts, and print somehow promote inequity? Not all students have the financial means to purchase print editions, and libraries may not always have enough copies for entire cohorts. Students from lower-income backgrounds, or those balancing jobs and family responsibilities, may find it harder to access physical books, particularly if they rely on digital copies for convenience. Even beyond cost, print books demand space and time that some students may lack, while digital texts allow for portability and easier annotation tools. Requiring physical books, then, risks privileging students with more resources, inadvertently creating barriers to participation in the very deep, reflective engagement the program aims to foster.

Yet Roosevelt Montás’s own story as a student in the Great Books program at Columbia reminds me that access alone does not determine the depth of engagement. Montás, who came from a background that did not initially expose him to books, nonetheless classics, described how immersion in Plato, Aristotle, and Augustine alongside his peers challenged him to think critically and shaped his understanding of the world. His experience suggests that even students without prior privilege or preparation can benefit profoundly from sustained, guided reading when the environment encourages dialogue and reflection. In this sense, requiring The Odyssey for first-year students might provide all participants, regardless of background, an opportunity to encounter the transformative power of a classical work. I wonder if worrying too much about the equity and access issues isn’t creating a kind of paralysis, where the fear of imperfection prevents institutions from offering experiences that, when thoughtfully supported, could challenge and expand students’ thinking. While access and resources remain important considerations, there is also value in trusting that students, with guidance and encouragement, can rise to the challenge of engaging deeply with a text like The Odyssey, just as Montás did in his own Great Books journey. I can’t help but think we have unrealistically low expectations. 

I think I’d like to take the chance on our students and provide them with access to long-form text again, including exposure to classics in print form. I long to see dog-eared pages, spines wrinkled and broken, and notes in the margins of paperbacks. While I am deeply troubled by the dismantling of the Department of Education and the anti-educational rhetoric coming from DC, there is a sliver of a silver lining. If we are no longer chained to state standards and testing, imagine the freedom in the classroom we can have and the time allotted to reading novels.

Just as a vinyl record offers an experience that cannot be replicated digitally, a sustained engagement with a novel allows students to hear its rhythm, see its structure, and absorb its lessons in ways fragments or screens never can. Requiring some exposure to classics invites students to slow down, pay attention, and savor the depth of thought that only long-form reading can provide. While I hear the caution that came from the 1954 article on the concerns of television and its impact on reading, and its echoes today with screentime, I have hope that the joy I have in novels, and records, can be passed on to my students.