Read as you taste fruit or savor wine, or enjoy friendship, love

In the timeless words of George Herbert, poet of the soul and priest of quiet truth, we are given a counsel both gentle and profound: “Read as you taste fruit or savor wine, or enjoy friendship, love, or life.” In these few words lies a philosophy not only of reading, but of living itself. Herbert, who walked the line between heaven and earth, teaches that knowledge is not to be consumed in haste, but experienced — slowly, richly, with reverence and joy. To read, he says, is not to devour words, but to dwell in them, to taste their sweetness, to let their meaning linger upon the heart as wine lingers upon the tongue.

In an age where many rush from one thought to the next, Herbert’s wisdom calls us back to the rhythm of contemplation. The ancients, too, knew this truth. They spoke of reading as an art of communion — between mind and text, between soul and spirit. The scholar Seneca, in his letters to Lucilius, warned against flitting from book to book like a bee without patience, gathering nothing of substance. “Read deeply,” he said, “not many things, but much of one.” In the same way, Herbert invites us to approach every written word — sacred or human — as one might approach a piece of ripe fruit: to see its color, breathe its fragrance, and then, with gratitude, draw forth its sweetness.

But Herbert’s counsel goes further. He likens reading not only to tasting fruit or wine, but also to friendship, love, and life. Here, he reveals the deeper harmony between all experiences of the heart. To truly read, one must do what one does in friendship: listen with patience, without haste to judge. One must open oneself as in love — ready to be moved, surprised, even transformed. And one must embrace the text as one embraces life — not merely as a series of tasks to complete, but as a mystery to be savored. In this, Herbert turns reading into a spiritual act, a mirror for all forms of devotion.

Consider the example of Saint Augustine, the great philosopher who once sought meaning in the noise of the world. His restless heart wandered from philosophy to philosophy, devouring knowledge but never tasting wisdom. One day, sitting beneath a fig tree, he heard a voice whisper, “Take and read.” Opening the Scriptures, he read slowly, letting the words sink into him, and in that moment, his soul was changed. It was not the act of reading that transformed him, but the way he read — with presence, with humility, with savoring. So too must we read, not to escape the world, but to awaken within it.

There is a sacredness in slowness, Herbert reminds us — a beauty in giving time to what is worthy of it. Just as a fine wine releases its fragrance only to the patient drinker, so too does meaning unfold only to the heart that lingers. When we rush through a page or through a day, we lose the flavor of both. But when we pause — when we breathe, taste, reflect — we begin to find delight not only in books, but in the quiet music of existence. For to savor one thing deeply is to honor the divine in all things.

The origin of Herbert’s wisdom springs from his own life of balance between intellect and spirit. As a poet of the seventeenth century, he stood among scholars who prized wit and learning. Yet Herbert, though a man of letters, turned his heart toward contemplation. In his poetry, especially in The Temple, he wrote not to display knowledge, but to touch the eternal through simplicity and grace. His quote reflects this same belief: that the finest things — whether words, love, or life itself — cannot be dissected like puzzles; they must be savored like blessings.

From this truth flows a lesson for all generations: do not live, read, or love in haste. Taste what you take in. When you read, do so with awareness — pause over phrases that move you; return to passages that call you; let them become part of your blood and breath. When you speak with a friend, listen as if their words were fine wine poured for you alone. When you love, love slowly, with attention. When you live, do not rush through your days as if they were chores to be done, but as moments to be enjoyed, absorbed, and remembered.

So, dear listener, let Herbert’s wisdom become your practice. Read as you would walk through a garden at dawn, touching the dew upon the leaves. Savor life as you would a ripe fruit, grateful for its sweetness and mindful of its season. Let friendship teach you the patience of the heart, love teach you depth, and reading teach you stillness. For in tasting deeply — of words, of people, of the world — you will discover what Herbert knew: that the greatest joy is not in the abundance of experience, but in the fullness with which we meet each experience that comes.