What Old Books Can Teach Us About Being Human Today
Dear reader,
Have you ever picked up your phone to find an answer and put it down feeling even more confused?
You wanted advice about your future. Twenty minutes later, someone is telling you to work harder, someone else is telling you to slow down, and a girl with a beautiful apartment seems to have figured out everything you are still struggling with.
There is advice everywhere. But understanding it is a little harder to find.
Sometimes, I wonder what would happen if we brought our questions somewhere else: to a poem written centuries ago, to a conversation recorded by the students of an ancient philosopherto a book whose author could never have imagined our lives. Yet somehow understood the feelings inside them.
After all, we did not invent the fear of being rejected, the desire to be admired, or the habit of wanting something we cannot have.
People were asking how to live long before there was a search bar.
That is part of what makes older literature worth reading. You open a book expecting to meet the past, and somewhere along the way, you recognize yourself.
Books That Have Made Me Into Who I Am Today
Who Are You Becoming While You Chase Your Goals?
College gives us plenty of ways to measure our progress: grades, credits, internships, and another line on a resume. It gives us fewer opportunities to ask what all that progress is doing to our character.
Confucius, the ancient Chinese philosopher, placed learning and everyday conduct at the center of becoming a better person. Education involved developing how you behaved toward others, with respect and care practiced through ordinary interactions.
Bring that idea into an ordinary college day.
You prepare carefully for a conversation with a professor because you want to make a good impression. Do you give the same attention to a classmate who struggles to explain an idea? You describe yourself as a good friend. Does that show up when someone needs to talk, and you are tired?
These questions can feel uncomfortable because they ask us to look beyond our intentions. We might want to be patient, generous, or thoughtful. But wanting those qualities and practicing them are different things.
One way to apply this is to choose a quality you admire and give it something specific to do. If you want to become a better listener, let someone finish without planning your response. If you value responsibility, admit a mistake before someone has to point it out.
Your ambitions deserve attention. So does the person pursuing them.
Whose Idea of Success Are You Following?
Imagine getting everything on your current wish list: the impressive internship, the title, and the approval of people whose opinions you take seriously.
Now, imagine nobody could know about it. Would you still want the same things?
This is a question we can bring to the work of Nizami Ganjavi, the twelfth-century Azerbaijani poet whose stories offer room to reflect on human desires, decisions, and their consequences. Reading him today, we can ask our own questions about the distance between what attracts us and what deserves our time.
That distinction matters when you are trying to build a future.
It is easy to become attached to the idea of a certain life before considering what living it would actually involve. You like the sound of a profession, but do you enjoy the work? You admire someone’s achievements, but would you want the daily routine behind them?
We spend so much time asking how to reach a goal that we sometimes forget to ask why we chose it.
Let this be an invitation to examine one thing you are currently chasing. Write down what attracts you to it. Be honest enough to include the less impressive answers: recognition, approval, the desire to prove someone wrong.
Then ask what would still matter after the excitement of being congratulated has passed. You do not need perfectly noble reasons for every ambition. But understanding your reasons gives you more say in the life you are building.
This is one way literature can help us. Watching a character make a choice gives us time to consider our own. We can recognize an impulse, question it, and think about its consequences before we act.
How Much of a Person Can You Actually See?
We make surprisingly large judgments from very small pieces of information.
Someone seems quiet, so we decide they are unfriendly. Someone gets an impressive internship, so we imagine their whole life is going well. We receive one rejection and begin treating it as a description of who we are.
The Azerbaijani poet Imadeddin Nasimi offers another starting point for reflection. His explanation of the human being invites us to consider the depth within a person and the limits of what appearances can reveal.
One question we can bring to his poetry is this: how much do we miss when we think we have already understood someone?
Think of a classmate you know only through their participation in class. You may know that they rarely speak. You probably know much less about what they are thinking, what they are dealing with, or how much effort it took for them to show up that morning.
Leaving room for what we do not know can make us more considerate.
We also need to leave that room for ourselves.
“I did badly on an exam” describes an experience. “I’m stupid” turns that experience into an identity. “I did not get the position” tells us what happened. “I have nothing to offer,” claims far more than that moment could ever prove.
The next time you catch yourself making a judgment like this, try making the sentence more accurate.
You can acknowledge disappointment without allowing it to explain your entire existence. There are still things you have not learned, skills you have not developed, and situations in which you have not yet seen what you can do.
Read With a Question
Of course, old books can be difficult. The language may feel unfamiliar. Some passages will seem distant from anything we recognize. You may disagree with an author or find that their answer does not work for your life.
That is part of reading thoughtfully.
A book does not become right about everything because it has survived for centuries. But it allows you to think alongside someone whose world was different from yours. That distance can help you notice assumptions you usually take for granted.
How Well Do We Really Know Ourselves?
There is one more thinker worth bringing into this conversation: Sigmund Freud, an Austrian neurologist. He belongs to a much later period, but his work adds a question that connects to everything we have explored: do we always know why we do what we do?
Freud argued that desires and conflicts outside our conscious awareness can influence our behavior. Many of his specific theories remain controversial or lack scientific support, so we should approach them critically. Still, his interest in the motives we don’t immediately recognize gives us something to think about.
We usually have an explanation ready for our actions. “I just don’t care,” “I am too busy,” “it was not that important anyway”. Sometimes, those explanations are accurate. Sometimes, they deserve a second look.
Imagine finding an opportunity you wanted and deciding not to apply. You tell yourself it would have been a waste of time. But could part of you have been afraid of trying and being rejected?
That is a question to explore, not a conclusion to force. Every hesitation does not hide a deep secret. We can simply become more curious about the explanations we give ourselves.
That curiosity can also change how we read. A character irritates you, and you wonder why. You defend another character’s decision even when it causes harm. A passage feels uncomfortable because it reminds you of something you would rather avoid.
These reactions can give you something to reflect on. What did you recognize? What did you resist? Did the story challenge something you wanted to believe about yourself?
Start with a question you actually care about.
Why do I need approval? What makes me a good friend? What would success mean if nobody could see it?
Choose a short passage or a poem in a clear translation, and learn a little about the context in which it was written. Notice what surprises you. Write a question in the margin. Argue with a sentence if you need to.
Then bring the same question to another author. See how their answers differ and which parts you find convincing. You might discover that an idea you have always accepted becomes less certain when someone challenges it well.
You do not have to finish an entire book to begin this conversation. A few pages read carefully can give you something to think about for the rest of the day.
And when an idea stays with you, try giving it a place in your life. Listen more carefully. Examine a goal. Be slower to judge someone. Notice how a thought on a page changes what you do afterward.
Dear reader, the next time you feel lost, consider opening a book that has been waiting much longer than your notifications.
You may find a sentence you want to argue with, a character who makes you uncomfortable, or a question you cannot stop thinking about.
Perhaps someone who lived centuries ago will help you understand something you struggle to explain this morning. That possibility is reason enough to turn the page.
With Love,
Kamala Aliyeva