'The Age of Reading is Over' proclaims a recent headline in The Atlantic. Fewer people are reading books. On social media, English teachers have shared that their students do not want to read works of fiction if they cannot relate to the characters. This may or may not be true, but something apparent is that many of today’s readers will routinely give a negative review if they cannot relate to the characters and events in a book. We only need to look at users’ book reviews on online bookstores and platforms like Goodreads to find the anecdotal evidence. If you spend enough time browsing the reviews, a pattern starts to emerge: relatability impacts readability. It’s common to see a reviewer praising a book and rating it highly when they recognise themselves or their lives in the characters and situations, and conversely giving negative criticism when they find the characters’ motivations and actions alien, unthinkable and at odds with their own values. It’s as if relatability has become the sole basis for literary judgement and the measure of a writer’s success. Does a book have to be relatable to be good? The short answer is no. A book’s merit does not depend upon its relatability. So, why do so many readers cite relatability as a main factor? What are they missing when relatability becomes the key criterion that determines how one engages with a work of literature? 

Writers have used recognition as a device to achieve different objectives in their storytelling for centuries. In Ancient Greece, Aristotle’s concept of recognition, or anagnorisis, refers to a pivotal revelation within the plot where a character gains sudden insight which drives the story towards its resolution. In contemporary relatability, this recognition has transferred from the characters to the reader. Recognition creates familiarity and, as an extension, fosters understanding for the characters and situations by reflecting the reader’s own feelings and experiences. It is always affirming to see yourself reflected in a work. When that happens, there is a sense of solidarity (and almost relief) to know that there are kindred spirits who think and feel like you. 

Representation is another facet of relatability that is significant. Growing up in the 1980s and 1990s in post-colonial Singapore, the books I read were predominantly by British writers like Enid Blyton, Roald Dahl and C. S. Lewis. I became more familiar with British landscapes, their seaside cliffs and green meadows, and European rivieras than the capes, estuaries and rainforests of tropical Southeast Asia. I didn’t understand why British children had dinner at noon and tea in the evenings but, like all young people, I could relate to the stories of youthful rebellion, angst and yearning for adventure. I didn’t find it odd at all that so many of my references were people from a far away place who looked nothing like me. It was only when I was much older that I came across short stories and novels by Singaporean authors (like Catherine Lim and Adrian Tan) who wrote about the contemporary Singapore society that I lived in and recognised. In their seminal works, Or Else the Lightning God & Other Short Stories and The Teenage Textbook, I found, for the first time, familiar environments, expressions and characters whose concerns resonated deeply with me. Somehow, it was so empowering to feel like I could finally fit in within those fictional worlds. 

Relatability, however, goes beyond representation and recognition. We should still be able to relate to experiences of characters from different cultures who don’t look or sound like us. If we only seek our own image and lived experience reflected back to us on a page, we are missing the point of literature. We would lose empathy for different norms and standards outside of our own class, cultures and temporality. We don’t have to have suffered the atrocities of subjugation to be able to be outraged by the ghosts of slavery in Beloved, or live in segregated societies to be disgusted by racism in To Kill a Mockingbird. Nor do we have to be from a certain social class to bemoan the matchmaking rituals in Pride and Prejudice. Any one of us can relate to universal human feelings like loneliness, oppression, love, desire or freedom, even as our individual experiences with each of them differ. It is this difference that matters; we shouldn’t lose out on seeing the world in all its complexity and depth. 

It could be that one of the reasons why people find books unrelatable is if there are especially unlikeable characters. Estella from Charles Dickens’ Great Expectations comes to mind. She is a cold, manipulative and heartless woman who is hell-bent on breaking hearts. But even the most unsympathetic characters can be relatable if we deign to put ourselves in their shoes. Is Estella not also a victim of a psychologically abusive childhood and toxic upbringing? It can be argued that many other characters in the novel, like Mrs Joe and Magwitch, are equally unlikeable, and it is difficult to relate to Victorian society. That, however, does not take away from the fact that the characters are written with depth and complexity, and that Great Expectations is one of Dickens’ finest works. It is easy to dismiss a book with an unlikeable character and I recently almost fell into this trap. In Love, Lies and Indomee, a novel by Nusri Basri described as a tragicomedy, the protagonist, Ratu, is an Indonesian career woman determined to find a husband to avoid being matchmade by a meddling mother. So far, so relatable. But Ratu is eccentric and I found myself vacillating between being amused and being annoyed by her. Some of the decisions she made seem so unhinged (spoiler alert: hiring a fake boyfriend), and I just could not understand her motivations or relate to her. I knew I didn’t like Ratu, but I could not decide how much I liked the book itself. The feeling irked me, so I asked an Indonesian friend for her thoughts. To my surprise, she said she could totally relate to the character I disliked so much because she knows so many people like her. I had almost judged the book’s merits based on my personal biases and my standards of plausibility. It proves my point that we should seek out books beyond those that are relatable to us, and be more open and curious in order to broaden our horizons. What is unthinkable for us could be the norm in another context. We have become so accustomed to being fed only the things that we agree with and being at the centre of everything around us. When it comes to art, sometimes we might have to take ourselves out of the work and remember that we are not the main character. 

Perhaps the tendency to only read and enjoy things which are relatable and agreeable is a response to the world we live in today. We’re inundated with information and images of outrageous situations brought about by the questionable actions of powerful people. When it feels like we’re living in Orwell’s 1984, it is tempting to retreat into the comfort of all that is cosy and familiar. But it is also exactly why, more than ever, we need to step outside our siloed bubbles, echo chambers and algorithms to reach across divides and build empathy. The best place to start is by getting out of our comfort zone and picking up a book that will lead us down an unfamiliar path.