[Red Envelope] If you don't read, your world is only as big as your phone screen!

Starting today, wake up early and write!

The Spring Festival holiday is here, and many people’s phones are right beside their pillows, the screens glowing—half-watched short videos still autoplaying before sleep…

With the holiday, can you reflect: how long has it been since you finished a book?

Three months? Six months? Or even longer?

What’s more unsettling is—you realize you feel no guilt at all.

You even find comfort in this “relaxation”: finally no longer forcing yourself, finally making peace with the ordinary, finally no longer kidnapped by the anxiety of “should be reading.”

This isn’t reconciliation; it’s resignation.

This isn’t calm; it’s the first sign of your decline.

With the advent of the AI era, perhaps, it won’t be long before many people’s worlds are only as big as their phone screens…

Many may have heard this saying:

“What’s the use of reading so many books? Look at those big bosses—how many are true readers?”

This phrase has harmed many people.

It commits a fatal logical error—confusing necessary and sufficient conditions.

People who don’t read may indeed succeed, just like those who don’t buy lottery tickets might still get struck by a meteor. But guiding your life based on a tiny probability event is like betting your entire future on luck.

Charlie Munger said: “Every smart person I’ve met in my life reads every day.”

Pay attention to his wording—every.

What does that imply?

It means that in Munger’s cognitive framework, continuous reading is a necessary condition for “smart people.” It’s not a bonus; it’s an entry requirement.

Some might say: Munger is old-fashioned; nowadays, with so much information, listening to podcasts and watching videos can also teach you.

Yes, but that’s feeding, not hunting.

Listening to someone interpret a book, you hear their digested opinions; scrolling through three-minute book summary videos, you see edited conclusions.

You think you’re absorbing nutrients, but really, you’re just eating someone else’s chewed-up bread.

This isn’t arrogance; it’s physiological fact: the brain only grows when actively constructing, passive reception can only stay at the level of “knowing.”

And knowing is a hundred thousand miles away from cognition.

What is cognition?

Cognition isn’t how much you know, but how difficult a problem you can solve.

Cognition is a web. Every book you read adds a node to this web.

Today, reading philosophy adds a dimension of thinking about human nature; tomorrow, reading history provides a reference for understanding the present; the day after, physics offers a perspective on causality.

Individually, these nodes may seem useless. But when they connect into a web, you suddenly can understand trends others can’t, make judgments others can’t.

This is the underlying logic of “cognition monetization”—it’s not a certain sentence in a book that makes you money; it’s your upgraded thinking model that reveals opportunities others can’t see.

And for those who never read, their cognition network has only a few lonely nodes.

Experiences from their family of origin, consensus from colleagues, emotions recommended by algorithms.

This web is riddled with holes, yet they think it’s the whole world.

They’re not living wrong; they’re trapped.

Cognition trapping a person is more covert than poverty.

Poverty makes you aware of your struggle; cognitive rigidity makes you think you’ve “lived wisely.”

Have you ever heard these words:

“This is just how life is.”

“I understand all those principles, but they’re useless.”

“Don’t talk to me about ideals; give me something practical.”

The people who say these aren’t seeing through; they’ve been tamed.

They once questioned, doubted, resented, but after too long without input, their cognitive boundaries were repeatedly hit and hurt, and finally, they just lay down in their prison.

“This is my fate,” they say.

But it’s not fate. It’s you turning off the light.

So what is the essence of reading?

It’s not about exams, showing off, or meeting KPIs.

It’s about borrowing light.

The confusion you feel now, people experienced it thousands of years ago.

Socrates faced the choice of “sticking to the truth or saving his life” when judged by the city-state; Wang Yangming was faced with “how to rebuild faith after its collapse” when exiled to Longchang; Zeng Guofan endured repeated defeats, questioning himself, “Am I simply not suited for this path?”

In fact, most of the walls they hit, the walls of history, they’ve already crashed through.

Most of the mazes where people can’t find an exit, their historical selves have walked out.

They recorded these experiences, reflections, trial and error, and epiphanies—all written into books.

This isn’t just words; it’s a spark.

When we open a book, we’re not just learning knowledge; we’re borrowing their light to illuminate our darkness.

That light cuts through your prejudice, your arrogance.

Finally admitting: what I thought was “insight” was just emotion; what I thought was “truth” was just stance; what I thought was “clarity” was just an escape from deep thinking.

At that moment, you’re not just reading.

You’re being examined by the book.

Being examined is painful.

No one likes discovering their own shallowness.

So most choose not to open, not to face, not to admit.

That’s why “reading is important” is well known, but truly persistent readers are always a minority.

Because reading isn’t fundamentally input; it’s confrontation.

You enter with your biases, confronting a soul thousands of times stronger than yours.

It asks you: do you really think this way? Are you willing to take responsibility for this conclusion? Are you sure it’s not just because you’re afraid?

If you’re sincere, you’ll be challenged.

If you’re brave, you’ll admit.

If you’re honest enough, when you close the book, you’ll find you’re no longer the person who opened it.

That’s growth—not collecting new information, but having your old self shattered.

Strangely, when this process repeats enough times, you’ll realize one thing:

What the ancient sages and saints said, you’ve always known faintly in your heart.

You just couldn’t express it, couldn’t clarify it, weren’t confident enough.

They spoke for you.

You’re not learning something new; you’re recognizing the light that’s always been inside you.

That light, because it’s been silent for so long, nearly extinguished. But when you read that sentence, that argument, that conclusion, it suddenly ignites.

You shudder: yes, that’s it.

At that moment, borrowed light becomes your own light.

It no longer belongs to Socrates, Wang Yangming, or Munger.

It belongs to you.

From now on, you’ll use it to judge, decide, and choose.

You no longer need others to tell you where to go.

You have your own compass.

The world has been quietly rewarding two types of people:

Those who discover the light, and those who create the light.

Discoverers of light are diligent, perceptive, humble—they’re willing to spend a few dollars on a book, to converse with wise people from thousands of years ago.

Creators of light grow from the discoverers. They read enough, think deeply enough, and eventually become “borrowers of light” themselves.

And most people spend their entire lives in others’ shadows.

They watch short videos of commentators interpreting Munger, listen to knowledge hosts dissect Wang Yangming, thinking that’s enough.

But they never realize—the light they pass on is always a faint glow.

The real light must be borrowed by oneself.

Writing this, Chang Yi recalls a friend.

He’s a typical “pragmatist,” never reads “useless” books. Management tools, marketing methodologies, but no philosophy, no history, no biographies.

A few years ago, he was promoted to senior management but suddenly hit a wall.

Struggling with strategic decisions, handling team conflicts poorly, even communication with the founders became difficult.

He asked Chang Yi: “Can you recommend any books I can read and use immediately?”

Chang Yi said: “No. What you lack isn’t tools; it’s perspective.”

He didn’t believe it.

Six months later, he left the company. Not because of lack of ability, but because his cognitive framework couldn’t support that position anymore.

He was too used to “how to do,” never thinking about “why to do.”

He could calculate ROI, but not understand people’s hearts.

He could handle tasks, but not find meaning.

It’s not his fault; it’s that his cognition hadn’t expanded in time.

So, returning to you, who are scrolling on your phone, drifting into sleep—

Your lack of guilt isn’t because you’ve made peace.

It’s because your soul has long stopped knocking on your door.

It knocked many times.

When you open and close “One Hundred Years of Solitude,” when you buy “Stars of Humanity” just to read the preface, when you add the “Must-Read Books of 2025” to your collection and never open it again—

It’s been waiting for your response.

Waiting for you to seriously open, read, and close just once.

Not to learn something, but to tell it: I’m still here.

I still want to know.

I haven’t resigned myself.

Tonight, one hour before sleep.

Turn off your phone, pick up that dusty book.

Open to the last bookmarked page.

Don’t think about anything—just read it all the way through.

That light is waiting for you.

— The boundary of cognition is the boundary of life. —

If you decide today to start reading again,

Give a like, and let’s borrow light together.