You Can’t Find Happiness In a Book
But you can find something else that’s equally important.
I’ve always been a reader, but I didn’t become a passionate reader until I was about 19.
The first book that sent me into the world of self-improvement, personal development, and mental growth was Mark Manson’s The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fuck. I was a depressed, anxious college sophomore, and the thought of “not giving a fuck” sounded incredibly appealing. After I graduated from high school and left my sheltered, safe upbringing, the naive worldview I had created for myself as a child was quickly being dismantled.
I started reading because I needed some sort of magnum opus. I needed something to believe in. Ultimately, I started reading because I needed a way to orient myself in the confusing-as-heck world that I was entering.
That desire to achieve knowledge started out as a fun little hobby I’d pursue while riding on the train to school in the mornings, but it grew into something much bigger. It grew into something problematic. Somewhere along the path to greater knowledge, I took a wrong turn and ended up on a path where I was trying to use reading to achieve happiness.
I’ve read a good amount of books, but none of them have made me happy. Here’s why.
