In second or third grade I was noted to be a fast reader. I recall being placed in a darkened room with a projector that would display only a single word of each sentence, at increasing speeds, on a screen. How often I went there I do not recall. But the experience was not unpleasant as I displayed my prowess at decoding a rapid string of words. I was in fact a very fast reader.

Around that time my mother asked me about a story that I had read for school. I probably said it was okay. It did not make any particular impression upon me. The story somehow interested her and she began to read it aloud by my side. The characters came to life. I was spellbound. The details of the story are faded, but at the end with tears welling up in my eyes I said, “Oh, that’s so sad.”

My mother was surprised. “Hadn’t you already read this?” she asked.

Apparently my reading fast and comprehending the words I was reading were two very different things.