In Praise of Slow

by Carl Honore

  Nevertheless, part of Russell’s prophecy has come true: people are devoting more free time to slow, contemplative hobbies. Gardening, reading, painting, making crafts—all of these satisfy the growing nostalgia for a time when the cult of speed was less potent, when doing one thing well, and taking real pleasure from it, was more important than doing everything faster.

  Crafts are a perfect expression of the Slow philosophy. As the pace of life accelerated in the nineteenth century, many people fell out of love with the mass-produced goods pouring from the new factories. William Morris and other proponents of the Arts and Crafts movement, which started in Britain, blamed industrialization for giving machines the upper hand and stifling the creative spirit. Their solution was to return to making things slowly and carefully by hand. Artisans produced furniture, textiles, pottery and other goods using traditional, pre-industrial methods. Crafts were hailed as a link to a kinder, gentler era. More than a century later, when once again technology seems to be calling the shots, our passion for the handmade is stronger than ever. You can see it in the cult of homemaking started by Martha Stewart, in the growth of the Slow Food movement and in the knitting boom sweeping across North America.

  Like other household crafts, such as cooking and sewing, knitting fell out of favour in the second half of the twentieth century. Feminism denounced homemaking as a curse on womankind, a barrier to gender equality. For women struggling to get ahead in the workplace, knitting was something to keep Granny busy in her rocking chair. But now that the sexes are on a more even footing, the domestic arts of yesteryear are making a comeback.

  Promoted by fashionable feminists such as Debbie Stoller, and hailed by trend spotters as “the new yoga,” knitting is now officially cool. Some of the most bankable celebrities in Hollywood—Julia Roberts, Gwyneth Paltrow, Cameron Diaz—do it in their spare time. More than four million Americans under the age of thirty-five, most of them women, have taken up the hobby since 1998. In New York, you see them in their Ralph Lauren jackets and Prada shoes, knitting up a storm on the subway or in the big, comfy chairs at Starbucks. On scores of websites, knitters swap tips on everything from choosing the best wool for mittens to dealing with finger cramp. Hip new knitting shops sell glamorous yarns—think faux fur or cashmere—that were once available only to fashion designers.

  Bernadette Murphy, a forty-year-old writer based in Los Angeles, caught the mood with her 2002 book, Zen and the Art of Knitting. She sees the return to needles and yarn as part of a wider backlash against the superficiality of modern life. “There is a great hunger in our culture right now for meaning, for things that connect us with the world and with other people, things that really nurture the soul,” she says. “Knitting is one way of taking time to appreciate life, to find that meaning and make those connections.”

  In living rooms, college dorms and company cafeterias across North America, women join knitting circles, where they build friendships as they stitch. The sweaters, hats and scarves they produce offer an alternative to the fleeting pleasures of modern consumerism. While manufactured goods can be functional, durable, beautiful, even inspiring, the very fact that they are mass-produced makes them disposable. In its uniqueness, its quirks and imperfections, a handmade item such as a knitted shawl carries the imprint of its creator. We sense the time and care that went into the making—and feel a deeper attachment to it as a result.

  “In the modern world, where it is so easy, so cheap, so quick to buy things, the things that we buy have lost their worth. What value does an object have when you can buy ten more exactly the same in an instant?” says Murphy. “When something is handmade, it means that someone has invested time in it, and that imbues it with real value.”

  Murphy came to knitting almost by accident. On a trip to Ireland in 1984, she tore her Achilles tendon and was unable to walk for two months. She started to knit to keep herself busy, and found it immensely calming.

  Knitting is by nature Slow. You cannot push a button, turn a dial or flick a switch to knit more quickly. The real joy of knitting lies in the doing, rather than in reaching the finish line. Studies show that the rhythmic, repetitive dance of the needles can lower heart rate and blood pressure, lulling the knitter into a peaceful, almost meditative state. “The best thing about knitting is its slowness,” says Murphy. “It is so slow that we see the beauty inherent in every tiny act that makes up a sweater. So slow that we know the project is not going to get finished today—it may not get finished for many months or longer—and that allows us to make our peace with the unresolved nature of life. We slow down as we knit.”

  Many knitters use their hobby as an antidote to the stress and hurry of modern life. They knit before and after big meetings, during conference calls or at the end of a tough day. Some claim the calming effect continues after they put down the needles, helping them keep their cool in the fast-moving workplace. Murphy finds that knitting helps her slip into Slow Thinking mode. “I can actually feel the active part of my brain shutting down, and that helps to straighten out the tangled knot of my thoughts,” she says. “It’s a wonderful cure for writer’s block.”

  Will the twenty-first century knitting boom eventually turn to bust? It is hard to say. Fashion is notoriously fickle. Knitwear may be trendy now, but what happens when chunky sweaters and funky scarves stop appearing on the cover of Vogue? Some knitters will probably hang up their needles and move on to the next fad. But many will carry on. In a fast-paced, high-tech world, a low-tech hobby that helps people decelerate is bound to keep its appeal.

  The same goes for gardening. In almost every culture, the garden is a sanctuary, a place to rest and ruminate. Niwa, the Japanese word for garden, means “an enclosure purified for the worship of the gods.” The act of gardening itself—planting, pruning, weeding, watering, waiting for things to grow—can help us slow down. Gardening does not lend itself to acceleration any more than knitting does. Even with a greenhouse, you cannot make plants bloom on demand or bend the seasons to suit your schedule. Nature has its own timetable. In a hurry-up world, where everything is scheduled for maximum efficiency, surrendering to the rhythms of nature can be therapeutic.

  Gardening took off as a popular leisure pursuit during the Industrial Revolution. It gave urbanites a taste of the rural idyll, providing a buffer against the frenetic pace of life in the new cities. Britain, which industrialized early, led the way. In the nineteenth century, air pollution made it difficult to grow much in the centre of London and other towns, but on the urban outskirts the middle classes began assembling ornamental gardens with flowerbeds, shrubs and water features.

  Fast-forward to the twenty-first century, and gardening is once again in the ascendancy. In a world where so many jobs revolve around data flickering across a computer screen, people are warming to the simple, Slow pleasure of sinking their hands into the earth. Gardening has, like knitting, shaken off its image as a pastime for pensioners to become a fashionable way for people of all ages and backgrounds to relax. Time magazine recently hailed the rise of “horticulture chic.” Across the industrial world, garden centres and nurseries are thronged with young people on a quest for the perfect plant, shrub or ceramic pot. A 2002 survey by National Family Opinion found that a record 78.3 million Americans now spend time gardening, making it the country’s leading outdoor leisure activity. The same goes for Britain, where horticultural programs command primetime slots on television, turning green-fingered presenters such as Charlie Dimmock and Alan Titchmarsh into household names. Gardener’s Question Time, a radio show that the BBC first aired after the Second World War, has doubled its audience since the mid-1990s.

  Hip, young and urban, Matt James is the new face of gardening. His British TV show, The City Gardener, teaches busy urbanites how to make room for Mother Nature on their doorsteps. James believes that gardening can reconnect us to the seasons. It can also bring people together. “Gardening is not just about getting back to nature,” he says. “A well-designed garden is a gr
eat place to have friends round, open a few beers, light up the barbecue. The social aspect is very important.”

  James inherited his passion for gardening from his mother, and has made a hobby and career of it since leaving school. What he cherishes most about working with the soil and plants is the way it slows him down. “Gardening can be incredibly frustrating when you start out—plants die on you, it seems like loads of work—but once you get past that first hump it is very peaceful and relaxing. You can turn off, be alone, let your mind wander,” he says. “Nowadays, when everyone is in such a rush all the time, we need slower pastimes like gardening more than ever.”

  Dominic Pearson could not agree more. As a trader for a bank in London, the twenty-nine-year-old works in the fast lane. Numbers flash across his screen all day long, forcing him to make split-second decisions that could make—or cost—his employer millions. Pearson used to thrive on the high-octane buzz of the trading floor, and earned big bonuses. But when the great bull market collapsed, he started suffering from anxiety. His girlfriend suggested that gardening might help. As a lager-loving, rugby-playing man’s man, Pearson had his doubts, but he decided to give it a shot.

  He ripped up the crumbling patio behind his flat in Hackney, replacing the old paving stones with a small lawn. Along the borders, he planted roses, crocuses, lavender, daffodils, winter jasmine and wisteria. He also put in creeping ivy and tomatoes. Later, he filled his apartment with potted plants. Three years on, his home is a feast for the senses. On a summer afternoon, the smell in the sun-drenched garden is intoxicating.

  Pearson thinks gardening makes him a better trader. While weeding or pruning, his mind goes quiet, and out of that silence come some of his best ideas for work. He is less tense on the trading floor and sleeps better at night. In almost everything he does, Pearson feels calmer, more engaged, less hurried. “Gardening is like therapy without having to pay a therapist,” he says.

  After a long day at work, though, most people are still more likely to reach for the television remote control than a gardening trowel or the knitting needles. Watching TV is easily the world’s number one leisure activity, gobbling up much of our free time. The average American views around four hours of television a day, the average European around three. TV can entertain, inform, distract and even relax us, but it is not Slow in the purest sense of the word. It does not allow us time to pause or reflect. TV dictates the pace, and the pace is often fast— with rapid-fire imagery, speedy dialogue and quick camera edits. Moreover, when we watch television, we do not make connections. On the contrary, we sit there on the sofa, soaking up images and words, without giving anything back. Most research shows that heavy viewers spend less time on the things that really make life pleasurable—cooking, chatting with family, exercising, making love, socializing, doing volunteer work.

  In search of a more fulfilling lifestyle, many people are kicking the TV habit. The anti-television movement is most militant in the United States. Every year since 1995, a lobby group called the TV-Turnoff Network has encouraged people to switch off their sets for a whole week in April. In 2003, a record 7.04 million people in the US and abroad took part. Most couch potatoes who cut back their viewing find that they spend more time on genuinely Slow pursuits.

  One of those is reading. Like knitting and gardening, the act of sitting down and surrendering to a piece of writing defies the cult of speed. In the words of Paul Virilio, a French philosopher, “Reading implies time for reflection, a slowing-down that destroys the mass’s dynamic efficiency.” Even when overall book sales are stagnant or falling, many people, particularly educated urbanites, are saying to hell with dynamic efficiency and curling up with a good book. It is even possible to talk of a reading renaissance.

  Just look at the Harry Potter phenomenon. Not so long ago, conventional wisdom pronounced reading dead among the young. Books were too boring, too slow for a generation raised on PlayStation. But J. K. Rowling has changed all that. These days, millions of kids all over the world devour her Harry Potter novels, the latest of which weighs in at a hefty 766 pages. And having discovered the joys of the written word, the young are now reaching for books by other authors. Reading is even a little bit cool. At the back of the school bus, kids leaf through the latest works by Philip Pullman and Lemony Snicket. Along the way, children’s fiction has gone from publishing backwater to star performer, complete with huge advances and movie tie-ins. In 2003, Puffin paid Louisa Young a million pounds for Lionboy, a story about a kid who finds he can talk to cats after being scratched by a leopard. In Britain, sales of children’s books have jumped 40% since 1998.

  Another sign that reading is making a comeback is the rise of the book group. Reading circles started in the mid-1700s, partly as a way to share books, which were expensive, and partly as a social and intellectual forum. Two and a half centuries later, book groups are sprouting all over the place, including in the media. In 1998, the BBC set up a monthly Book Club slot on highbrow Radio 4, and then added a similar show to the World Service in 2002. Oprah Winfrey launched her famously influential Book Club in 1996. Novels featured on her show, even those by unknown authors, routinely glide to the top of the bestseller list. In 2003, after a ten-month hiatus, Oprah resurrected her Book Club with a new focus on literary classics. In the twenty-four hours after she recommended John Steinbeck’s East of Eden, which was first published in 1952, the novel soared from number 2,356 in the Amazon sales list to number 2.

  Book clubs attract busy professionals looking for an enriching way to unwind and socialize. Paula Dembowski joined a group in Philadelphia in 2002. An English literature graduate, she began reading less and less as her career in executive recruitment took off. Then, one day, the thirty-two-year-old suddenly realized that she had not picked up a novel for six months. “That was a wake-up call to me that my life was out of balance,” she says. “I wanted to get back to reading, but I also saw reading as a way to generally rebalance the pace of my life.” To make room for books, she started watching less TV and gradually cutting back on after-hours work engagements. “I’d forgotten how totally relaxing it is to just sit down for a whole evening with a good novel,” she says. “You enter another world, and all those little worries, and the big ones, too, just melt away. Reading adds another, slower register to things.”

  For many people, the act of reading is Slow enough. But others are going a step further by making an effort to read less quickly. Cecilia Howard, a Polish-American writer who describes herself as “a fast-lane, type-A person,” draws a parallel between reading and exercise: “My motto is that anything truly worth reading is worth reading slowly. Think of it as the mental equivalent of SuperSlow exercise. If you really want to build muscles, make your movements as slow as possible. If you want to exercise really hard, do it so slowly it’s practically a standstill. And that’s the way you need to read Emily Dickinson.”

  Amos Oz, an Israeli writer, agrees. In a recent interview, he urged us all to be less fast with books. “I recommend the art of slow reading,” he said. “Every single pleasure I can imagine or have experienced is more delightful, more of a pleasure, if you take it in small sips, if you take your time. Reading is not an exception.”

  Reading slowly does not have to mean consuming fewer words per minute. Just ask Jenny Hartley, an English lecturer and expert on book groups. In 2000, her London-based group decided to read Charles Dickens’ Little Dorrit in the same way it would have been read in its day—in monthly instalments spread over a year and a half. That meant resisting the modern urge to race ahead to the end, but the wait was worth it. Everyone in the group loved taking it lento. Having already read the novel six times for her teaching work, Hartley was pleased to find that a slower reading opened up a whole new world of detail and nuance. “When you rattle through it, you don’t appreciate some of the jokes and waiting games, and the play that Dickens makes with secret stories and hidden plots,” she says. “Reading it slowly is much more satisfying.” In her course at the U
niversity of Surrey, Roehampton, Hartley now experiments with her students, having them devote a full semester to reading Middlemarch.

  Thousands of miles away, on the Canadian Prairies, Dale Burnett, a professor of education at the University of Lethbridge, has come up with a high-tech version of Slow Reading. Whenever he reads a book of any substance—airport novels need not apply—he keeps a Web-based diary. After each reading session, he uploads memorable quotes and insights, basic details about the plot and characters and any reflections inspired by the text. Burnett still reads the same number of words per minute, but takes two to four times longer to finish a book. When I catch up with him, he is slowly working his way through Anna Karenina, reading for an hour or two, and then spending the same time again pouring his thoughts and impressions into a cyber-diary. He is bursting with enthusiasm for Tolstoy’s grasp of the human condition. “I find I have a much deeper appreciation of the books I read now,” he says. “Slow Reading is a bit of an antidote to the fast-paced state we’re in at the moment.”

  The same can be said of art. Painting, sculpture, any act of artistic creation, has a special relationship with slowness. As the American writer Saul Bellow once noted, “Art is something to do with the achievement of stillness in the midst of chaos. A stillness which characterizes … the eye of the storm … an arrest of attention in the midst of distraction.”

  In galleries all over the world, artists are putting our relationship with speed under the microscope. Often the works seek to shift the viewer into a more still, contemplative mode. In a recent video piece, Marit Folstad, a Norwegian artist, is shown struggling to blow up a large red balloon until it explodes. Her aim is to make the viewer decelerate long enough to think. “By using a series of visual metaphors centred on the body, breathing and the extended limits of physical strain, I attempt to slow the art spectator down,” she says.

  In the everyday world, beyond the galleries and garrets, people are taking up art as a way to decelerate. One of the first English-language signs I see in Tokyo is for an Art Relaxation Course. Kazuhito Suzuki uses painting to slow down. As a Web designer in the Japanese capital, he lives from one deadline to the next. To ward off what he thought was an impending burnout, the twenty-six-year-old signed up for an art course in 2002. Now, every Wednesday evening, he joins a dozen other students for two or three hours of painting still lifes and models. No deadlines, no competition, no rush—just him and his art. At home, in his tiny apartment, Suzuki paints watercolours of everything from bowls of fruit to Microsoft manuals. His latest effort is of Mount Fuji on a spring morning. In his study, the easel stands just a couple of feet from his computer, yin and yang, work and play, in perfect harmony. “Painting helps me find a balance between fast and slow, so that I feel more calm, more in control,” he says.