Eight years ago, I began reading seriously — fifty books a year, sometimes more — moving from one novel to the next by following whatever thread happened to snag my curiosity.

For example, as my hobby of running developed in my mid-twenties, I went through a phase of reading books on running. Somewhere during that time, I also began walking and trail running, so I read a book on walking and then books on hiking, with stories of Mount Everest specifically peaking my capricious interests.

Over time, with scattered themes accumulating and my sense of quality, style, and context slowly developing, I began to sense that something larger was being shared. After thousands of hours spent reading authors from different countries, time periods, genders, and ages, I began to notice something: Novels are not just stories. They are records of how people once understood reality.

In other words, books were all about context.

The writing — the style, plot, characters, and setting — fit into, and recorded, something unique about their era, because the writers themselves were a product of the decades in which they lived.

And so, I didn't become naturally aware of this somewhat academic topic of "literary movements" and the "development of the novel form", rather, I noticed patterns.

For example, during my phase of reading Mexican literature, I found myself asking: Why did so many Mexican novels contain these strange, cloud-like, wonder-filled moments where a character magically disappears or reappears? I would look it up and find that magical realism was common in Latin American literature. But I still wondered: Why? Why did these authors choose this style, whereas many French authors did not?

These questions compounded. After looking into it, I realized that what was happening was more profound than similarities in artistic style. There were literary movements unique to continents, languages, and cultures — yes — but also global movements, and an even larger development of the novel as a form of communication.

Perhaps, too, I was influenced by hearing this recurring idea from authors and literature podcast hosts. In particular, I was struck by an interview with Ian McEwan (below), where he describes how the modern novelist stands on the shoulders of giants in the development of the form.

Now I am in the process of looking up what actually happened to the novel, as described by researchers and academics.

If novels are records of their time, then reading them is not just aesthetic — it is historical, enlightening, even philosophical.

The question, then, is this:

What does the evolution of the novel reveal about the evolution of us?

I will publish Part Two next week.

Eight years ago, I began reading seriously — fifty books a year, sometimes more — moving from one novel to the next by following whatever thread happened to snag my curiosity.

For example, as my hobby of running developed in my mid-twenties, I went through a phase of reading books on running. Somewhere during that time, I also began walking and trail running, so I read a book on walking and then books on hiking, with stories of Mount Everest specifically peaking my capricious interests.

Over time, with scattered themes accumulating and my sense of quality, style, and context slowly developing, I began to sense that something larger was being shared. After thousands of hours spent reading authors from different countries, time periods, genders, and ages, I began to notice something: Novels are not just stories. They are records of how people once understood reality.

In other words, books were all about context.

The writing — the style, plot, characters, and setting — fit into, and recorded, something unique about their era, because the writers themselves were a product of the decades in which they lived.

And so, I didn't become naturally aware of this somewhat academic topic of "literary movements" and the "development of the novel form", rather, I noticed patterns.

For example, during my phase of reading Mexican literature, I found myself asking: Why did so many Mexican novels contain these strange, cloud-like, wonder-filled moments where a character magically disappears or reappears? I would look it up and find that magical realism was common in Latin American literature. But I still wondered: Why? Why did these authors choose this style, whereas many French authors did not?

These questions compounded. After looking into it, I realized that what was happening was more profound than similarities in artistic style. There were literary movements unique to continents, languages, and cultures — yes — but also global movements, and an even larger development of the novel as a form of communication.

Perhaps, too, I was influenced by hearing this recurring idea from authors and literature podcast hosts. In particular, I was struck by an interview with Ian McEwan (below), where he describes how the modern novelist stands on the shoulders of giants in the development of the form.

Now I am in the process of looking up what actually happened to the novel, as described by researchers and academics.

If novels are records of their time, then reading them is not just aesthetic — it is historical, enlightening, even philosophical.

The question, then, is this:

What does the evolution of the novel reveal about the evolution of us?

I will publish Part Two next week.