First, I do not read for information. My mind has been clinically likened to Swiss Emmental cheese. It naturally filters out unwanted information. I lose nothing through this involuntary refinement; instead, my focus is sharpened upon that which really matters to me.
That being the case, as much as is possible, I read primary, original sources. If translations are required, I take the time to research most accurate translations. Multi-lingual, daily, I read in a number of languages without translation. In English, again, in general, I trust little of American origin. Instead, that access is directed elsewhere. News, if informational, is old before I read it; so it defies the term, news. Opinion matters if it is opinion that I respect, whether or not I agree with it.
I read an average of 1000 pages a week, in several languages. I read fiction, biography, original philosophy, literary criticism, history, et cetera; none of which are intended to inform, but to elucidate, to edify, to enlighten.
I read, not to be helped in any way, specifically, but to gain broadened sensual awareness of, and thus a more diverse perspective upon, an aspect of behaviour, or an issue of feeling, thought, or occurrence. Articles, in general, are too brief, too much beholding to a specific task at hand, a particular objective of heart or mind, either self-determined, or at the behest of another or others. If perception does not elucidate, enhancing understanding, correcting error, or supplementing where deficient, it is not wanted, nor even is it granted access into my psyche. If anyone can have it, I don’t want it. If anyone can do it, I won’t do it. If everyone thinks it, I won’t think it. If everyone wants it, I won’t have it.
Reading on-line, especially through social media sites, is hazardous. In general, I do not so engage. Any article, if connected in any way to any source beyond the writer her or himself is suspect. Again, source, affiliation, loyalty, branding, history, are essential to my acceptance of input. Truth is seldom in the middle, seldom on the fence, seldom grey. There are no half truths. There are no white lies. If one tells white lies, one tells black lies, too. If one breaks the little promises, one will break the big ones, too. Loyalty is the least of virtues.
A conscientious reader, I do not need or want fluff. I do not need of want to be soothed. With honey, I want a sting. For every rose, I give my blood. Tell me something I do not already know. Show me something I have yet to see. Take me to lands yet unexplored, where flowering mystery surrenders itself to the takers, where new fires are and colours unseen, phantasms by the thousands, weightless, which seek to be made real in the context of my unique comprehension. Interest, fascination, infatuation, obsession, all lie in mystery rather than identity. There are only mediocrity and obsession. I choose obsession. Always.
Elastic logic thinning grows delicate to marvels. Fine argument at finest disembroils the ravelled choking maze of caution. The sudden of the slow is bred, the curious of the common. Into the sceptic fog that mists infraction from the chronic rule stumbles intelligence a-rage to find the unthought wanton thought and, self-confounding, think it.