Consciousness Anežka	Kuzmičová,	Stockholm	University anezka.kuzmicova@littvet.su.se To	appear	in: Leah	Price	and	Matthew	Rubery	(eds.),	Further	Reading (Oxford:	Oxford	University	Press,	Forthcoming) Penultimate	copy	April	17,	2018 Keywords: Reading;	Consciousness;	Mental	imagery;	Memory;	Narrative;	Environment; Education;	Literacy Speaking	about	reading	is	risky,	but	speaking	about	reading	and	consciousness	is even	riskier.	If	reading	is	only	beginning	to	take	shape	in	scholars'	minds	as	a circumscribed	phenomenon	worthy	of	concerted	research	scrutiny, consciousness	itself	has	been	disputed	for	centuries.	How	does	consciousness work?	Do	people	have	it	in	the	first	place?	And	how	does	it	relate	to	reading? The	mechanics	of	human	consciousness	–	this	notional	interface	between one's	brain	and	the	physical	world	–	has	wide-ranging	interest	for	various domains	of	mundane	life.	In	healthy	drivers,	temporary	disruptions	can	cause fatal	accidents.	Disputes	in	criminal	court	often	boil	down	to	the	question	of whether	the	accused	party,	or	a	witness,	actually	could	perceive	a	given	thing	or consciously	act	in	a	given	situation.	Behind	the	current	rise	of	various	meditation techniques	is	the	promise	that	they	will	make	us	less	oblivious,	increase	our consciousness.	Reading	is	another	such	domain,	because	insight	into	the workings	of	consciousness	is	key	to	the	effectiveness	of	any	script-based education.	The	buzzwords	associated	with	issues	of	literacy	and	learning	today	– attention,	meta-cognition,	self-regulation,	and	so	forth	–	all	relate	closely	to	the phenomenon	of	consciousness. These	buzzwords	emerge	at	a	time	when	scholars	are	beginning	to accumulate	evidence	in	support	of	the	view	that	one's	general	learning	ability,	as well	as	one's	empathy	and	personality	development,	benefit	strongly	from	the 2 habitual	reading	of	stories	and	novels.	For	example,	psychologists	Suzanne	Mol and	Adriana	Bus	conducted	a	meta-analysis	of	ninety-nine	different	empirical studies	comprising	data	from	over	seven	thousand	participants	aged	two	to twenty-one.1	They	found	that	leisure	reading	not	only	increases	one's	learning ability,	but	also	that	its	positive	impact	on	learning	increases	with	age;	the	older a	person	is	within	the	given	range,	the	more	it	matters	for	their	learning achievement	whether	they	read	for	leisure	or	not.	Other	studies,	such	as experiments	by	David	Comer	Kidd	and	Emmanuele	Castano,	show	that	the reading	of	novels,	and	especially	literary	ones,	enhances	one's	empathy	skills	in the	short	and	long	term.2	Following	the	warnings	of	literacy	experts,	however, there	is	talk	about	the	momentous	decline	of	these	beneficial	"deep	reading" leisure	practices.3	The	"depth"	that	we	are	allegedly	losing	as	a	side	effect	of	the digital	turn	refers,	again,	to	nothing	less	than	our	consciousness	as	we	read. But	what	do	we	know	about	the	particular	state	of	consciousness	of readers	absorbed	in	fictional	narratives,	whether	in	print	or	on	screen?	We worry	about	its	frailty	and	importance	for	sustainable	society	development,	but we	know	very	little	about	its	nature.	In	what	follows,	I	review	and	partly	contest three	ideas	about	how	consciousness	works	when	we	read	and	understand stories	and	novels.	Each	in	its	own	way,	these	ideas	tend	to	inform	how	longform	reading	is	discussed	and	taught	today.	Firstly,	I	revisit	the	general	notion that	the	reading	consciousness	is	a	container	of	sorts,	containing	a	circumscribed amount	of	textual	stimulus.	Secondly,	an	argument	is	presented	against	the	view that	readers	commonly	abstract	their	personal	concerns	away	in	reading	literary text,	and	that	they	do	so	with	benefit.	Thirdly,	I	show	how	the	reading consciousness	encompasses	rather	than	excludes	the	physical	situation	and environment	of	reading.	For	each	idea	revisited,	practical	implications	will	be 1	Suzanne	E.	Mol	and	Adriana	G.	Bus,	"To	Read	or	not	to	Read:	A	Meta-analysis	of Print	Exposure	from	Infancy	to	Early	Adulthood,"	Psychological	Bulletin	137,	no. 2	(2011):	pp.	267-296,	doi:10.1037/a0021890. 2	David	Comer	Kidd	and	Emmanuele	Castano,	"Reading	Literary	Fiction	Improves Theory	of	Mind,"	Science	342,	no.	6156	(2013):	pp.	377–380, doi:10.1126/science.1239918. 3	Maryanne	Wolf	and	Mirit	Barzillai,	"The	Importance	of	Deep	Reading," Educational	Leadership	66,	no.	6	(2009):	pp.	32–37. 3 discussed	in	terms	of	how	reading	could	be	taught,	assessed,	and	staged	in educational	settings. Reading	as	a	Way	of	Being Simply	put,	consciousness	is	what	our	brain	"knows"	about	a	given	situation	it	is in.	In	relation	to	non-conscious	phenomena	(say,	the	onset	of	a	migraine), consciousness	adds	a	subjective	feel	of	what	these	phenomena	are	like	(it	hurts). One	pervasive	notion	in	the	field	of	literacy	seems	to	be	that	when	we	read	a stretch	of	narrative,	our	consciousness	is	a	container	of	sorts.	As	we	make	our way	through	the	text,	its	contents	gradually	pour	into	our	consciousness	(and	to a	large	part	spill	out	again).	Trained	readers'	minds	may	also	take	up	various higher-order	and	formal	aspects	of	the	text	in	addition	to	the	basic	gist.	The	more important	information	should	ideally	stick	in	our	mind,	the	container,	for	future use.	This	is	how	our	reading	ability	is	also	measured	with	various	instruments, such	as	the	Programme	for	International	Student	Assessment	(PISA)	Test administered	by	the	Organisation	for	Economic	Co-operation	and	Development (OECD).4	The	more	facts	we	retain	in	short-term	memory,	and	the	more comprehension	and	analysis	questions	we	correctly	answer	immediately	after reading	a	story,	the	more	conscious	and	valuable	our	reading	is	understood	to have	been. The	container	metaphor	is	partly	fitting;	in	the	instant	of	testing,	some facts	about	the	text	can	be	retrieved	from	memory	(those	that	stayed	in	the container)	while	others	simply	cannot	(those	that	spilled	out).	However,	it	tells us	little	about	how	readers	experience	stories	and	novels	when	they	are	in	the midst	of	reading,	especially	if	they	undertake	it	for	leisure,	outside	any	testing situation.	The	reading	consciousness	is	then	more	like	a	sieve	moving	back	and forth	through	a	viscous	medium,	I	propose,	than	like	a	container	taking	in	a continuous	stream. 4	OECD.	PISA	2015	Results	(Volume	I):	Excellence	and	Equity	in	Education	(Paris: OECD	Publishing,	2016). 4 Individual	differences	aside,	leisure	readers	do	not	seem	to	spontaneously remember	much	detail	of	the	novels	they	read:5	the	exact	sequence	of	events,	the core	of	every	conflict,	names	of	places	or	characters,	or	the	name	of	the	author for	that	matter.	Such	is	the	case	especially	if	the	novels	are	lengthy	and	perused in	portions	over	extended	periods	of	time.	Often	leisure	readers	do	not	even recall	these	details	when	explicitly	asked	to	do	so	in	retrospect.	This	is	not necessarily	because	these	readers'	consciousness,	their	immersion,	was	not "deep"	enough,	but	because	they	might	largely	read	novels	without	a	prior	view to	remembering	anything	in	particular.	I	will	return	to	this	idea	shortly;	but	first, a	story	in	support	of	the	sieve	metaphor. Spontaneous	memories	of	complex	narratives	tend	to	be	discontinuous and	haphazard	with	respect	to	what	is	"objectively"	important,	although	they have	been	shown	to	sometimes	cluster	around	nodal	story	points	such	as moments	of	conflict	resolution	between	characters.	One	type	of	phenomena	that tends	to	stick	for	longer	in	the	reader's	mind	(in	its	capacity	as	container)	is mental	imagery.6	For	the	sake	of	illustration,	let	us	assume	that	listening	to	a story	is	similar	to	reading	one	silently,	an	argument	I	have	detailed	elsewhere.7 Many	years	ago,	I	heard	a	lecture	elaborately	citing	a	story	from	an	honorable literary	source,	the	author	or	title	of	which	(appropriate	enough	for	this discussion)	I	never	remembered.	In	that	story,	a	laundress	in	the	distant	past	is washing	sheets	by	a	river.	A	priest	comes	by	and	delivers	a	sermon	to	her	while she	is	working.	When	the	sermon	is	finished,	he	asks	if	she	remembers	what	he said.	She	replies	that	she	does	not,	in	fact,	for	the	sermon	was	like	the	river washing	through	her	sheets;	it	sieved	through	her,	and	her	soul	is	now	cleansed nonetheless.	While	I	would	fail	a	test	on	the	further	context	of	this	story	snippet, 5	Marisa	Bortolussi	and	Peter	Dixon,	"Minding	the	Text:	Memory	for	Literary Narrative,"	in	Lars	Bernaerts	et	al.	(eds.),	Stories	and	minds:	Cognitive	approaches to	Literary	Narrative	(Lincoln:	University	of	Nebraska	Press,	2013),	23-37. 6	Karen	A.	Krasny	and	Mark	Sadoski,	"Mental	Imagery	and	Affect	in	English/ French	Bilingual	Readers:	A	Cross-linguistic	Perspective,"	Canadian	Modern Language	Review/La	Revue	canadienne	des	langues	vivantes	64,	no.	3	(2008):	pp. 399–428,	doi:10.3138/cmlr.64.3.399 7	Anežka	Kuzmičová,	"Audiobooks	and	Print	Narrative:	Similarities	in	Text Experience,"	in	Jarmila	Mildorf	and	Till	Kinzel	(eds.),	Audionarratology: Interfaces	of	Sound	and	Narrative	(Berlin:	De	Gruyter,	2013),	217-237, doi:10.1515/9783110472752-014. 5 the	image	of	liquid	content	washing	through	the	mind	was	so	embodied	and powerful	that	for	an	instant	I	felt	the	repeated	impact	of	cold	water	in	my	chest as	I	listened.	This	sensation,	together	with	what	I	have	come	to	consider	as	the story's	true	characterization	of	narrative	reception	in	general,	is	what	makes	me remember	the	snippet	after	more	than	a	decade. The	mental	image	froze	my	consciousness	of	the	story	at	a	particular point	in	time,	preserving	some	of	it	for	future	reference.	As	my	anecdote suggests,	mental	imagery	is	a	powerful	instrument	to	cognition.	Indeed,	largescale	surveys	by	Suzanne	Mol	and	Jelle	Jolles8	have	shown	that	our	individual propensity	for	mental	imagery	relates	closely	to	reading	enjoyment,	and	to academic	success	overall.	However,	much	of	high	quality	reading	time	can	go	by without	vivid	mental	images.	During	this	time,	it	can	prove	difficult	to	say	what was	in	our	consciousness	at	any	given	point.	Suppose	you	are	reading	a hypothetical	novel	X	where	a	new	minor	character	has	just	been	introduced. Were	you	conscious	of	the	three	adjectives	defining	this	character	a	couple	of lines	back,	or	did	you	make	your	way	through	them	automatically?	Which adjectives	were	they?	It	might	appear	that	as	you	read	them,	you	were	still reflecting	on	the	main	protagonist's	philosophical	thoughts	that	were	articulated in	the	preceding	paragraph.	And	yet	an	indistinct	sense	of	that	new	person	has somehow	been	added	to	your	story	experience.	It	is	in	this	respect	that	the reading	consciousness	is	more	of	a	sieve	(or	a	thinned	sheet	being	washed	in thrusts)	than	a	container. My	example	might	seem	to	suggest	that	you	never	were	conscious	of	the descriptive	passage	in	question;	that	much	of	long-form	story	reading	actually happens	non-consciously	and	lacks	depth	at	all.	Many	readers,	however,	would likely	recognize	having	read	a	literary	descriptive	passage	if	they	encountered	it verbatim	a	hundred	pages	later	in	the	same	novel,	a	phenomenon	that	puzzled philosopher	and	literary	theorist	Roman	Ingarden	nearly	a	century	ago.9	How can	the	passage	seem	familiar	if	you	do	not	remember	noticing	it	the	first	time 8	Suzanne	Mol	and	Jelle	Jolles,	"Reading	Enjoyment	Amongst	Non-leisure	Readers Can	Affect	Achievement	in	Secondary	School,"	Frontiers	in	Psychology	5,	no.	1214 (2014):	pp.	1-10,	doi:10.3389/fpsyg.2014.01214. 9	Roman	Ingarden,	The	Cognition	of	the	Literary	Work	of	Art,	trans.	Ruth	Ann Crowley	and	Kenneth	Olsen	(Evanston:	Northwestern	University	Press,	1973). 6 around?	And	how	come	experiments	such	as	those	of	Kidd	and	Castano	show habitual	readers	of	fiction	to	be	profoundly	transformed	by	reading	in	the	long term,	despite	having	access	to	so	little	of	their	text	experience,	both	in	the	act and	in	retrospect? Philosopher	and	psychologist	Susan	Blackmore	proposes	a	view	of consciousness	that	is	helpful	in	grasping	the	paradox.	Blackmore	is	concerned with	consciousness	in	general	and	does	not	address	the	activity	of	reading.	In	its unparalleled	complexity,	however,	reading	provides	a	wealth	of	intriguing examples	relevant	to	her	idea.	In	Blackmore's	account,	humans	typically	neither lack	consciousness,	as	some	thinkers	radically	believe,	nor	have	it	in	the	form	of a	continuous	stream	of	conscious	experience,	as	most	other	people	think. Blackmore	argues	that	what	appears	like	our	stream	of	consciousness	–	for example,	the	feeling	of	text	pouring	smoothly	into	the	notional	container	of	our mind	–	is	an	illusion	conjured	in	response	to	random	probes	later	on.	The	nature of	a	probe	will	necessarily	determine	how	past	experience	is	reconstructed.	On this	understanding,	trying	to	pinpoint	the	precise	"contents"	of	one's consciousness	in	retrospect,	as	people	are	expected	to	do	with	confidence	in court,	is	misguided.	Let	me	quote	one	of	Blackmore's	examples: In	a	noisy	room	full	of	people	talking	you	may	suddenly	switch	your attention	because	someone	has	said	"Guess	who	I	saw	with	Anya	the other	day	–	it	was	Bernard."	You	prick	up	your	ears	–	surely	not	–	you think.	At	this	point	you	seem	to	have	been	aware	of	the	whole	sentence	as it	was	spoken.	But	were	you	really?	The	fact	is	that	you	would	never	have noticed	it	at	all	if	she	had	concluded	the	sentence	with	a	name	that	meant nothing	to	you.10 The	problem	in	reading	long-form	narrative	is	that	the	number	of	verbal	probes that	can	guide	one's	grasp	of	the	preceding	text	–	the	direction	in	which	the	sieve of	consciousness	will	be	thrust	next	–	is	endlessly	higher	than	in	the	processing 10	Susan	Blackmore,	"There	Is	No	Stream	of	Consciousness,"	Journal	of Consciousness	Studies	9,	no.	5-6	(2002):	pp.	17–28, http://www.ingentaconnect.com/contentone/imp/jcs/2002/00000009/F0020 005/1274. 7 of	Blackmore's	two-clause	utterance.	In	light	of	this	insight	it	seems	a	mystery how	any	two	people	can	ever	come	close	to	converging	in	their	subjective experience	of	a	story	or	novel. Many	scholars,	such	as	Philip	Davis	or	Marco	Caracciolo,11	are	working toward	a	better	understanding	of	this	mystery.	In	contrast	to	what	I	have	tried	to convey	here,	they	emphasize	the	power	of	literary	language	to	transform	one's unruly	text	experience	into	a	shareable	stream,	that	is,	momentarily	to	halt	the sieve	of	consciousness	and	turn	it	into	a	container.	The	importance	of	such research	cannot	be	stressed	enough.	However,	the	vast	disparity	of	PISA	reading outcomes	and	other	literacy	indices,	across	and	within	classrooms	and	countries, suggests	that	the	alleged	power	of	literature	might	not	affect	every	pupil indiscriminately.	Not	without	a	reading	pedagogy	that	takes	proper	notice	of how	consciousness	works	–	or	does	not	work.	As	part	of	testing	and	other classroom	practice,	such	pedagogy	would	introduce	probes	and	questions	about texts	prior	to	reading	rather	than	afterwards,	as	PISA	and	similar	measures typically	do.	It	would	also	integrate	systematic	training	in	mental	imaging	as	an aid	to	both	memory	and	pleasure. Reading	as	a	Way	of	Being	Yourself The	next	idea	that	I	will	discuss	here	pervades	–	especially	but	not	exclusively	– the	higher	tiers	of	reading	education,	in	literature	classes	at	secondary	schools and	universities.	It	is	the	idea	that	when	you	set	out	to	interpret	a	novel	or	story, you	can	and	should	abstract	away	from	the	various	contingencies	of	your	current situation.	For	most	of	the	twentieth	century,	academic	literary	studies	were dominated	by	the	notion	of	the	so-called	"affective	fallacy,"	which	derided idiosyncratic	responses	based	on	personal	life	experience.12	Contemporary research	agendas	like	the	one	of	Philip	Davis	focus	precisely	on	the	ability	of literary	fiction	to	lift	one's	mind	out	of	its	personal	concerns	in	order	to	rekindle it	to	existential	themes	such	as	mortality,	which	are	equally	valid	to	us	all.	Less 11	Philip	Davis,	Reading	and	the	Reader	(Oxford:	Oxford	University	Press,	2013); Marco	Caracciolo,	The	Experientiality	of	Narrative:	An	Enactivist	Approach (Berlin:	De	Gruyter,	2014). 12	William	K.	Wimsatt	and	Monroe	C.	Beardsley,	"The	Affective	Fallacy,"	The Sewanee	Review	57	(1949),	no.	1,	pp.	31–55. 8 literary	reads,	in	turn,	are	sometimes	notoriously	dubbed	"escapist."	They	are thought	to	make	readers	forget	about	real	life	altogether,	including	the	fact	of their	mortality.	For	both	the	literary	and	non-literary	cases,	there	is	an assumption	that	the	reader's	preexisting	self	becomes	largely	overridden	in consciousness	by	interpersonal	meanings. In	my	view,	more	credit	should	be	given	to	the	reader's	sense	of	self	when we	think	about	how	narrative	informs	our	consciousness.	Even	Susan Blackmore's	simple	anecdote	speaks	to	the	importance	of	personal	relevance	as our	mind	picks	out	stimuli	for	conscious	processing.	Blackmore	says,	"you	would never	have	noticed	(...)	if	she	had	concluded	the	sentence	with	a	name	that meant	nothing	to	you."	Evidence	from	empirical	studies	of	reader	response suggests	that	in	the	complex	process	of	story	reading,	it	can	be	similarly	difficult to	tease	apart	the	question	"What	does	this	mean?"	from	the	question	"What does	this	mean	to	me?"	In	leisurely	book	talk,	the	conversational	floor	is	often divided	according	to	real-life	experience	and	expertise.	When	discussing	a	story set	in	a	medical	environment,	for	instance,	reading	groups	tend	to	be	(naturally) most	eager	to	hear	the	insights	of	the	doctors	in	their	midst. I	would	even	go	further	in	suggesting	that	for	many	leisure	readers,	the added	value	of	narrative	lies	not	in	the	invitation	to	forget	oneself	(Davis'	chosen perspective),	but	to	momentarily	become	conscious	of	one's	self	and	one's problems	in	specific	ways	that	may	be	less	readily	available	otherwise.	It	is	a known	fact	that	outside	academic	contexts,	people	report	reading	literature	in order	to	identify	with	characters	and	their	shortcomings,	to	cope	with	difficult situations,	and	to	learn	new	things	about	life	(rather	than	about	literature	in some	abstract	sense).	This	is	what	they	say	about	their	preferences	when	filling out	surveys,	and	what	they	tick	in	questionnaires	after	being	exposed	to	texts	in experimental	studies. But	how	do	these	different	personal	realizations	inform	consciousness	in the	very	course	of	reading?	Often	enough,	they	may	come	in	the	form	of propositional	thought	("Oh	my,	this	character	is	acting	just	like	me").	Just	as often,	however,	they	may	assume	the	form	of	mental	imagery.	My	previous example	was	of	a	mental	image	closely	adhering	to	the	wording	of	a	given narrative	–	liquid	content	sieving	through	me	like	the	river	through	a	sheet, 9 precisely	as	the	laundress	said.	Many	of	the	mental	images	that	occur	to	us	in reading	may,	however,	adhere	to	wording	only	loosely.	Instead,	they	feed	on	our personal	memories	triggered	by	the	narrative.	If	my	associations	to	the	word "river,"	say,	had	made	me	briefly	imagine	the	chilly	swims	I	used	to	take	with	my grandparents	in	the	(rather	viscous)	Elbe	river	when	I	was	a	child.	Uffe	Seilman and	Steen	Larsen,	two	psychologists	who	studied	personal	responses	to	text	in the	1980s,	coined	the	term	"reminding"	for	this	type	of	conscious	associations.13 As	to	format,	remindings	can	be	just	about	anything	–	snippets	of	encyclopedic knowledge,	word	chains,	or	melodies	such	as	the	tune	of	an	old	song	with	the word	"river"	in	it. Perhaps	the	most	important	finding	of	Seilman	and	Larsen	and	their successors	is	that	the	remindings	of	truly	affect-laden,	personally	lived experiences	are	much	more	common	in	literary	narrative	compared	to	other types	of	reading	materials,	and	that	their	frequency	directly	affects	the	pleasure taken	in	reading.	The	latter	is	paradoxically	true	for	remindings	of	negative personal	experiences,	especially.	Thus,	depending	on	our	situation,	a	given	story or	novel	will	yield	–	among	many	other	things	–	a	more	or	less	intense	parade	of conscious	thoughts,	memories,	and	images	in	which	our	very	selves	play	an active	part.	It	is	in	this	sense	that	literature	affords	a	unique	form	of	selfconsciousness,	in	which	you	focus	on	yourself	and	yet	you	do	not,	because	the story	you	are	reading	is	really	about	others. Most	scholars	of	literature	and	reading,	including	some	of	those	who study	live	readers'	experiences,	would	classify	remindings	such	as	my	Elbe memory	as	"diversionary"14	and	akin	to	mind	wandering.	Indeed,	there	is evidence	that	such	memories	can	divert	students'	attention	from	a	particular poetic	device	in	a	text,	hampering	literary	analysis.	But	it	would	be	untenable	to argue	that	they	are	diversionary	with	respect	to	one's	mindset	when	opening	a book	for	pure	leisure,	which	is	seldom	geared	to	anything	so	specific. 13	Uffe	Seilman	and	Steen	F.	Larsen,	"Personal	Resonance	to	Literature:	A Study	of	Remindings	While	Reading,"	Poetics	18,	no.	1-2	(1989):	pp.	165–177, doi:10.1016/0304-422X(89)90027-2. 14	Shelley	Sikora,	Don	Kuiken,	and	David	S.	Miall,	"Expressive	Reading:	A Phenomenological	Study	of	Readers'	Experience	of	Coleridge's	The	Rime	of	the Ancient	Mariner,"	Psychology	of	Aesthetics,	Creativity,	and	the	Arts	5,	no.	3	(2011): pp.	258–268,	doi:10.1037/a0021999. 10 As	for	the	analogy	with	mind	wandering,	a	phenomenon	that	reportedly takes	up	as	much	as	a	quarter	of	normal	reading	time,15	remindings	would	again represent	a	rather	special	case.	According	to	philosophers	of	consciousness Zachary	Irving	and	Evan	Thompson,	the	one	distinctive	feature	of	mind wandering	is	that	it	is	"unguided"	thought.16	This	means	that	when	your	mind begins	to	wander,	the	topic	of	your	thought	will	be	prone	to	change	while	there will	be	no	regulatory	force	to	reinstate	the	initial	topic.	In	narrative	reading, however,	there	is	indeed	a	regulatory	force	to	keep	your	remindings	in	check: the	text.	As	long	as	the	text	holds	the	reader's	interest,	their	consciousness	will keep	returning	to	it.	At	the	same	time	there	is	proof,	as	mentioned	above,	that without	the	mind	being	prompted	to	wander	away	to	personal	associations, one's	interest	in	the	text	will	suffer.	A	feedback	loop	seems	to	be	at	work	here, then.	If	we	accept	that	remindings	are	a	type	of	mind	wandering	in	the	first	place, then,	this	feedback	loop	supports	another	idea	put	forward	by	Irving	and Thompson,	namely	that	mind	wandering,	albeit	unguided,	can	in	principle	be task-related.	The	task	at	hand	in	reading:	letting	a	narrative	wash	through	one's mind. PISA	and	similar	projects	keep	reporting	a	worrisome	link	between students'	degree	of	social	advantage	and	their	ability	to	read,	especially	with pleasure.	From	a	very	early	age,	excellence	in	literacy	seems	to	be	reserved	for the	socially	privileged.	The	standard	explanation	is	that	due	to	environmental factors,	disadvantaged	readers	lack	academic	dispositions	in	a	narrow	sense:	the ability	to	focus,	pursue	goals,	think	critically,	and	so	forth.	This	is	probably	true. A	complementary	question,	arising	from	my	view	that	reading	is	a	particular form	of	self-consciousness,	is	whether	these	low-performing	readers	might	also be	lacking	in	their	capacity	to	think,	with	depth	and	pleasure,	about	themselves	as they	read	(and	perhaps	also	in	general).	A	literary	and	reading	pedagogy embracing,	rather	than	deriding,	remindings	and	self-reflection	would	be	a	first 15	Jonathan	W.	Schooler,	Erik	D.	Reichle,	and	David	V.	Halpern,	"Zoning	Out	While Reading:	Evidence	for	Dissociations	between	Experience	and Metaconsciousness,"	in	Thinking	and	Seeing:	Visual	Metacognition	in	Adults	and Children,	ed.	Daniel	T.	Levin	(Cambridge:	MIT	Press,	2004):	pp.	203-226. 16	Zachary	C.	Irving	and	Evan	Thompson,	"The	Philosophy	of	Mind-Wandering," in	Oxford	Handbook	of	Spontaneous	Thought	and	Creativity,	eds.	Kieran	Fox	and Kalina	Christoff	(Oxford:	Oxford	University	Press,	forthcoming). 11 step	toward	redressing	such	imbalance.	One	of	the	probes	to	be	introduced	prior to	reading	would	then	be	the	question:	"What	does	this	remind	you	of	–	in	your self?" Reading	as	a	Way	of	Being	in	a	Place The	last	idea	that	I	would	like	to	revisit	is	that	reading	transports	you	away	– that	is,	decouples	your	consciousness	–	from	your	immediate	environment. While	it	is	certainly	relevant	to	think	about	literature	as	adventurous	mental travel,	and	while	the	metaphor	has	great	pedagogical	interest	especially	in	early reading	promotion,	it	is	sometimes	taken	too	literally. In	measuring	attention	during	narrative	reading,	for	instance,	researchers widely	administer	questionnaires	such	as	the	Transportation	Scale	or	Narrative Engagement	Scale.	These	questionnaires	ask	readers	to	rate,	in	retrospect,	how aware	they	were	of	their	reading	environment.	Attention	to	text	is	then	simply assumed	to	be	inversely	related	to	scores	given	to	statements	of	place	awareness, as	in	the	following	example:	"While	I	was	reading	the	narrative,	activity	going	on in	the	room	around	me	was	on	my	mind."17	The	underlying	view	is	that	the physical	place	has	little	to	add,	other	than	distraction,	to	one's	conscious experience	of	a	written	narrative.	In	some	parts	of	the	world,	accordingly,	silent literary	reading	is	practiced	communally	in	primary	and	secondary	classrooms under	the	assumption	that	a	controlled	environment	free	from	stimuli	optimally supports	concentration.	And	to	get	the	most	out	of	reading	in	their	spare	time, pupils	are	advised	literally	to	shut	the	door	on	their	otherwise	stimulating	world. Yet	it	is	a	simplification	to	think	that	when	we	read,	all	things	outside	the text,	or	outside	our	virtual	stock	of	remindings	for	that	matter,	are	necessarily distracting.	Often	enough	the	place	where	we	read	is	an	integral	part	of	our	story experience	in	a	positive	sense.	For	instance,	think	of	the	places	where	you typically	read	for	leisure.	How	do	they	sound?	Most	probably	they	are	not absolutely	quiet,	as	such	places	are	hard	to	find	in	natural	conditions,	and actually	difficult	to	be	in	without	training.	Now	let	us	recall	Susan	Blackmore's 17	Melanie	C.	Green	and	Timothy	C.	Brock,	"The	Role	of	Transportation	in	the Persuasiveness	of	Public	Narratives,"	Journal	of	Personality	and	Social	Psychology 79,	no.	5	(2000):	pp.	701–721,	doi:10.1037/0022-3514.79.5.701. 12 proposal	about	consciousness.	What	it	implies	is	that	the	inconspicuous soundscapes	of	our	mundane	life	–	the	hum	of	traffic	outside	your	building,	birds screeching	somewhere	further	away	–	only	seem	to	have	been	outside	your consciousness	once	you	finally	look	up	from	the	book	you	have	been	reading. The	reason	for	this	is	that	they	are	not	as	easily	remembered	in	the	illusory	form of	a	stream.	Nevertheless,	they	may	have	been	part	of	your	reading	experience all	the	while.	Another	philosopher	of	consciousness,	Eric	Schwitzgebel,	has	run ingenious	experiments	in	which	he	asked	participants	to	introspect	in	response to	trigger	signals	generated	at	random	intervals	while	carrying	out	their	usual activities.	He	found	that	some	of	the	time	consciousness	indeed	appears	to encompass	unattended	phenomena	that	are	unrelated	to	one's	immediate activity,	such	as	bird	screech	in	the	background.18 At	less	abstract	levels,	one	fact	challenging	the	idea	of	the	reading consciousness	as	decoupled	from	physical	environment	is	that	readers	often have	strong	opinions	about	places	to	read.	Some,	but	by	no	means	all	of	these opinions,	have	to	do	with	noise	levels	and	soundscapes. With	a	group	of	collaborators,	I	have	run	a	study	exploring	students' reading	behaviors	from	a	spatial	angle.19	It	yielded	a	number	of	insights.	For instance,	many	if	not	most	participants	reported	seeking	out	white	noise	(nature sounds,	music,	voices	in	public	spaces)	to	accompany	their	reading	for	both leisure	and	study	purposes.	Importantly,	this	was	often	linked	to	a	preference	for sharing	their	reading	space	with	other	people,	as	well	as	to	sensitivity	to	what those	people	were	doing.	Apparently	readers	experience	reading	as	a	highly situated	activity,	and	also	as	a	distinct	way	of	claiming	and	inhabiting	a	place.	In this	light,	having	pupils	read	silently	in	classrooms	may	seem	a	good	choice	from the	communal	sharing	point	of	view,	but	less	so	if	the	classrooms	are	too	quiet. 18	Eric	Schwitzgebel,	"Do	you	Have	Constant	Tactile	Experience	of	Your	Feet	in Your	Shoes?	Or	is	Experience	Limited	to	What's	in	Attention?,"	Journal	of Consciousness	Studies	14,	no.	3	(2007):	pp.	5–35. 19	Anežka	Kuzmičová,	Patrícia	Dias,	Ana	Vogrinčič	Čepič,	Anne-Mette Albrechtslund,	André	Casado,	Marina	Kotrla	Topić,	Xavier	Mínguez	López,	Skans Kersti	Nilsson,	Inês	Teixeira-Botelho,	"Reading	and	Company:	Embodiment	and Social	Space	in	Silent	Reading	Practices,"	Literacy	(ePub	ahead	of	print,	2017), doi:10.1111/lit.12131. 13 Elsewhere	I	have	detailed	how	the	physical	environment	can	also	inform readers'	consciousness	by	way	of	reinforcing	mental	imagery,	that	is,	when	one's physical	situation	somehow	corresponds	to	the	setting	or	contents	of	the	story being	experienced.20	For	instance,	if	I	knew	where	to	look	for	the	laundress	story in	print	and	read	it	on	the	Elbe	bank	I	used	to	go	to	as	a	child,	or	near	any	other river	for	that	matter,	my	mental	images	of	it	would	likely	be	even	more	vivid. This	effect	would	not	necessarily	depend	on	me	actually	hearing	the	river	(in	my memories,	the	Elbe	is	perfectly	still),	or	seeing	it	peripherally	in	the	moment	of experiencing	the	story;	the	sheer	sense	of	its	physical	proximity	would	probably suffice	to	prop	my	mental	imagery.	This	principle	of	environmental	propping	has a	wealth	of	possible	applications	in	reading	pedagogy	as	teachers	can	evoke story	settings	through	various	priming	techniques	and	classroom	adjustments. They	can	also	inspire	pupils	to	experiment	with	different	reading	environments in	their	spare	time	so	as	to	enhance	their	story	experience. In	my	hypothetical	propping	scenario,	the	serendipitous	sense	of	a	nearby river	merging	in	my	consciousness	with	the	fictitious	river	might	also	further reinforce	future	memories	of	my	physical	encounter	with	the	story.	But	as	it happens,	although	I	heard	the	laundress	story	nowhere	near	a	water	resource,	I still	remember	this	encounter	fairly	well.	After	many	years	I	still	know	where, when,	and	from	whom	I	heard	the	anecdote.	I	am	not	suggesting	that	all	past narrative	experiences	are	as	intimately	tied	in	memory	to	where	they	took	place. But	some	are,	and	clearly	not	only	those	propped	by	congruent	settings.	Perhaps certain	life	circumstances	support	such	highly	situated	forms	of	reading consciousness,	a	view	also	held	by	astute	consciousness	observer	Marcel	Proust in	his	essay	On	Reading: what	our	childhood	reading	leaves	behind	in	us	is	above	all	the	image	of the	places	and	days	where	and	when	we	engaged	in	it.	I	have	not	escaped its	sorcery:	intending	to	speak	about	reading	I	have	spoken	of	everything 20	Anežka	Kuzmičová,	"Does	it	Matter	Where	You	Read?	Situating	Narrative	in Physical	Environment,"	Communication	Theory	26,	no.	3	(2016):	pp.	290-308, doi:10.1111/comt.12084. 14 but	books,	because	it	is	not	of	books	that	the	reading	itself	has	spoken	to me.21 Proust's	observation,	then,	is	where	the	three	strands	of	this	chapter come	together.	It	chimes	with	evidence	of	readers	looking	for	"themselves"	in literature	in	sensitive	times	especially,	as	a	way	of	coping	or	identity	formation. Childhood	and	young	adulthood,	the	life	period	in	which	the	foundations	of	our reading	habits	and	abilities	are	laid,	happens	to	be	one	such	sensitive	time. Additionally,	as	young	readers	are	busy	tackling	literacy	acquisition	in	a technical	sense,	their	reading	consciousness	is	also	likely	bound	to	be	the	most unruly	and	the	least	amenable	to	the	neat	container	metaphor.	Educators	may more	or	less	intuit	this	double	exceptionality.	The	challenge	is	exploring	it	to	the pupils'	benefit	–	when	teaching,	designing	tests,	and	setting	the	physical	stage	of their	narrative	experiences.	In	digital	times,	when	reading	and	text	are	becoming mobile	to	a	degree	that	would	have	baffled	the	sedentary	experiencer	Proust,	we must	remember	to	worry	not	only	about	the	notorious	depth	of	the	mind's container,	but	also	about	the	reach	and	agility	of	the	sieve	that	is	the	reading consciousness. Further	Reading Blackmore,	Susan.	Consciousness:	An	Introduction,	second	edn.	(Oxford:	Oxford University	Press,	2011). Charlton,	Michael,	Corinna	Pette,	and	Christina	Burbaum.	"Reading	Strategies	in Everyday	Life:	Different	Ways	of	Reading	a	Novel	Which	Make	a	Distinction," Poetics	Today	25,	no.	2	(2004):	pp.	241–263. Fialho,	Olivia,	Sonia	Zyngier,	and	David	Miall.	"Interpretation	and	Experience: Two	Pedagogical	Interventions	Observed,"	English	in	Education	45,	no.	3	(2011): pp.	236–253. 21	Marcel	Proust,	On	Reading,	trans.	Damion	Searls	(London:	Hesperus	Press, 2011):	p.	18.	My	italics. 15 Hurlburt,	Russell	T.	and	Eric	Schwitzgebel.	Describing	Inner	Experience? Proponent	Meets	Skeptic	(Cambridge,	MA:	The	MIT	Press,	2007). Koopman,	Eva	Maria	(Emy)	and	Frank	Hakemulder.	"Effects	of	Literature	on Empathy	and	Self-Reflection:	A	Theoretical-Empirical	Framework,"	Journal	of Literary	Theory	9,	no.	1	(2015):	pp.	79–111. Kuiken,	Don,	David	S.	Miall,	and	Shelley	Sikora.	"Forms	of	Self-Implication	in Literary	Reading,"	Poetics	Today	25,	no.	2	(2004):	pp.	171–203. Kuzmičová,	Anežka.	"Literary	Narrative	and	Mental	Imagery:	A	View	from Embodied	Cognition,"	Style	48,	no.	3	(2014):	pp.	275-293. Kuzmičová,	Anežka	and	Katalin	Bálint.	"Personal	Relevance	in	Story	Reading:	A Research	Review,"	Poetics	Today	39	(In	Press). Miall,	David	S.	and	Don	Kuiken.	"Aspects	of	Literary	Response:	A	New Questionnaire,"	Research	in	the	Teaching	of	English	29,	no.	1	(1995):	pp.	37–58. Wolf,	Maryanne.	Tales	of	Literacy	for	the	21st	Century	(Oxford:	Oxford	University Press,	2016).