Modern society produces very different kinds of texts, which require very different kinds of reading. In a sense, the habit of specializing in one type of text spoils the reader for reading different kinds of texts; and since these are largely unconscious routines that have become habitual, such specializations are difficult to correct.
It is advisable to distinguish between poetic texts, narrative texts and scientific texts. In the following, we will mainly deal with scientific texts; but their peculiarity is best elucidated by first clarifying that and why they are not to be read like poems or novels.
The assertion of fictional texts' own typology is due to a protracted process of historical habituation that lasted from the 17th century until well into the 18th century and was conditioned by the difficulty of distinguishing between real reality and fictional reality. (Novels often initially present themselves as found letters, found notes, in order to convince the reader of the authenticity of their accounts). In the case of narrative texts, the textual coherence derives from the tension, that is, from the unknowability of the future that the reader puts before him; but also, looking backward, from the fact that the resolution of the tension must, as Jean Paul noted, draw on the parts of the text that have already been read. The reader is confronted, so to speak, with the paradox of already knowing what he does not yet know. The narrative not only develops in the time of its actions, it is also structured as a text with the help of time, namely with the help of the distinction between "already read"/"not yet read".
The reading of poems makes completely different demands. They are by no means narratives in verse form, nor can they be read line by line from beginning to end. What is important here are tonal elements, unusual word choices (especially in the case of normal words), recognition of counter-meanings and contrasts, and above all rhythm as a guarantee of a sub-sensory unity. The reading requires an attentive short-term memory and multi-layered recursions, which cannot rely on the fact that what is meant is also said.
The reading of scientific texts again makes other demands. I am thinking here of linguistically formulated texts, i.e. not texts written in the secret script of mathematical or logical calculations. Scientists, too, have to form sentences if they want to publish. However, in the choice of words necessary for this, there is a degree of randomness that is unimaginable for most readers. Even the scientists themselves rarely realize this. The vast majority of texts could be worded differently, and would be worded differently if they had been written the next day. The filling mass of the words, which are necessary for the sentence formation, escapes any conceptual regulation. For example, ))eludes" in the preceding sentence. This cannot be avoided, even if the utmost care is taken to ensure the distinctness and recognizability of words charged with conceptual meaning. They make up only a small part of the mass of the text. But how is a reader supposed to find these words that matter?
This problem arises particularly drastically in two cases: with translators and with beginners. In any case, I have noticed from these two groups of readers how haphazardly I myself write - despite considerable care in persevering and refining theoretical relationships.
Translators who are not sufficiently familiar with the theoretical context of the given text often put equal effort into translating all the words they find in the text. This does not mean that they keep to the order of the words, which is mostly impossible, and in this sense translate )>word for word". But they do not consider themselves authorized to play with the filler of the sentences. They choose from lexically given equivalents the variant which seems to come closest to the presumably meant sense, and I don't know. how to do it differently without writing completely new texts in the other language. Readers interested in science can therefore only be advised to learn as many languages as possible to the extent that they can at least passively master them, i.e. read and understand them.
Beginners, especially first-year students, are initially confronted with a set of words arranged in sentences, which they can read sentence by sentence and understand according to the meaning of the sentence. But what does it come down to? What should be "learned"? What is important, what is merely incidental? After a few pages of reading, one can hardly remember what one has read. What recommendations could be given here?
One way is to remember the names – Marx, Freud, Giddens, Bourdieu, etc. Obviously, most of the knowledge is organized under names, possibly also under theory names such as social phenomenology, reception theory in literary studies, and so on. One also finds beginner courses laid out in this way or introductory texts. **What one does not or hardly learn, however, are conceptual contexts and, above all, problems to which the texts try to give an answer.** Still exam candidates come at the end of their studies and want to be examined about Max Weber or, if that is too much, about Humberto Maturana, and are prepared to – report what they know about these authors.
Another option is to read on certain topics – defect liability in civil law, socialization theory, risk research, etc. – to read a great deal in parallel. Then one gradually develops a feeling for what is already known and becomes familiar with the "state of research". New things then stand out. But one learns something, which is mostly very quickly outdated and then to unlearn again. This shows the advantage of learning old languages. One never needs to unlearn them, but only to forget them.
The problem of reading scientific texts seems to lie in the fact that here one does not need a short-term memory but a long-term memory in order to gain reference points for distinguishing the essential from the unessential and the new from the merely repetitive. But you can't remember everything. That would be memorization. One must, in other words, be able to read highly selectively and extract widely interconnected references. One must be able to follow recursions. But how does one learn this, if no instructions can be given; or at best about conspicuousnesses (as in the previous sentence for example "recursions", but not "must")?
Perhaps the best method may be to take notes – not excerpts, but condensed retormulations of what has been read. The re-description of what has already been described leads almost automatically to the training of an attention for "frames", for schemes of observation or even for conditions that lead to the text offering certain descriptions and not others. In doing so, it is useful to always consider: What is not meant, what is excluded, when something specific is asserted? If there is talk about "human rights": From what does the author distinguish his statements? From inhuman rights? From human obligations? Or culturally comparatively or historically from peoples who know no human rights and can live with it quite well?
Very often the text gives no or no clear answer to this question about the other side of its statement. But then one must help it to its feet with one's own imagination. Scruples with regard to hermeneutic justifiability or even truth would be out of place here. At first, it is only a question of one's own system of writing down, of searching for something worth remembering; and of learning to read.
This leads to another question: What do you do with what you have written down? Certainly, at first one produces largely waste. But we are brought up to expect something useful from our activities and otherwise quickly lose heart. Therefore, one should consider whether and how to prepare the notes in such a way that they are available for later access, or at least this is a comforting illusion in front of one's eyes. This requires a computer or a note box with numbered notes and a keyword index. The ongoing "filing" of the notes is then another work process that takes time; but also an activity that goes beyond the mere monotony of reading and, as it were, incidentally trains the memory.
But we had started the considerations under the question: How does one learn to read scientific texts? The answer is only that this requires extensive recourse to what is already known, i.e. long-term memory. This does not form by itself. Perhaps reformulating writing is a suitable method for this; and this even if one has to postpone the hope of scientific productivity for a while.
This could be an occasion to recall that the differentiation of text types, with reference to which we had introduced our reflections, only emerged in the 18th century at all. This is true for the modern novel, for sophisticated (one could almost say multimedia) poetry, but also for scientific journalism. Obviously, this differentiation in all its fields has been fascinated by the printing of books. It may be that now, especially in view of the possibilities offered by the computer, we need to return more to the intrinsic achievements of writing.
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LUHMANN, N. Lesen Lernen [Learning to Read] In N. Luhmann (Ed.), Short Cuts, 2000, p. 150–157.
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