Value of reading?

I'm not sure if this is one of the unsung values of reading widely (because you are able to put words to emotions, or understand things in a different way) or a drawback (because you sometimes think of sad passages, and it makes you sad) but this morning randomly the bit from the Spirit of Christmas Yet To Come from "A Christmas Carol" popped into my head, especially the part about Bob Cratchit walking more slowly after Tiny Tim's (hypothetical, and prevented, because of Scrooge's change-of-heart) death:

"The mother laid her work upon the table, and put her hand up to her face.
"The colour hurts my eyes," she said.
The colour? Ah, poor Tiny Tim.
"They're better now again," said Cratchit's wife. "It makes them weak by candle-light; and I wouldn't show weak eyes to your father when he comes home, for the world. It must be near his time."
"Past it rather," Peter answered, shutting up his book. "But I think he's walked a little slower than he used, these few last evenings, mother."
They were very quiet again. At last she said, and in a steady, cheerful voice, that only faltered once:
"I have known him walk with -- I have known him walk with Tiny Tim upon his shoulder, very fast indeed."
"And so have I," cried Peter. "Often."
"And so have I," exclaimed another. So had all.
"But he was very light to carry," she resumed, intent upon her work, "and his father loved him so, that it was no trouble -- no trouble. And there is your father at the door!"
She hurried out to meet him; and little Bob in his comforter -- he had need of it, poor fellow -- came in. His tea was ready for him on the hob, and they all tried who should help him to it most. Then the two young Cratchits got upon his knees and laid, each child a little cheek, against his face, as if they said, "Don't mind it, father. Don't be grieved."
Bob was very cheerful with them, and spoke pleasantly to all the family. He looked at the work upon the table, and praised the industry and speed of Mrs Cratchit and the girls. They would be done long before Sunday, he said."


"I think he's walked a little slower than he used, these past few evenings...."

Ah, yes. Everything has seemed slower for me this fall: I think more slowly, I move more slowly. I cannot accomplish as much. It makes me sad, on top of the other sadnesses I am bearing already. I want to do more, I want to be more efficient. But I guess I just won't, for a while.

And Mrs. Cratchit's comment about "the colour hurts my eyes" - ah, an easy excuse for one tearing up. I have once or twice this fall commented "the light's a bit strong for my eyes right now, that's all" but really, that wasn't all.

They say reading novels tends to make a person more sympathetic, or that having read fiction as a child helps to develop sympathy. Maybe. Or maybe it just helps us understand better what it is to be human.

(For many, many years, I made it a tradition to read "A Christmas Carol" every year before Christmas. Not EVERY year, but many of them).