“We live in a perpetually burning building, and what we must save from it, all the time, is love.”
— Tennessee Williams
It’s easy to feel overwhelmed. The world often feels heavy more than it feels light. And in the face of everything happening in the world right now (the noise, the grief, the constant pressure to move faster and do more), picking up a book can feel small. Unimportant, even.
But it isn’t.
Literature doesn’t solve the world’s problems. It doesn’t put out the fires. But it reminds us what’s worth saving as they burn.
Books hold space for love, for memory, for quiet reflection. For connection. For truth. And for those strange, sharp moments of recognition when a line catches you off guard and makes you feel seen, even just for a second.
Stories carry us. They slow things down. They help us remember that empathy, thoughtfulness, and imagination aren’t luxuries. They’re survival tools. Because even in a burning world, the act of reading, the act of choosing to sit with another person's words, is its own kind of resistance. A small, quiet way of saying it matters and I care. And that’s enough to start again.
PS: I write these because stories help me stay human. If a book has helped you do the same, I’d love to hear about it.