My biggest problem with Niel Postman's "Amusing Ourselves to Death" was his implicit and unargued assumption of the supremacy of written over oral culture. However, Ivan Illich helpfully complicates such oversimplistic notions like "written culture"; he argues convincingly that a shift took place around the 1100s where writing became less a matter of dictation (centering the communal aspect of several inter-related oral and written roles, like dictator, scribe, etc.) into more a matter of silent reading and writing, something basically unheard of previously.
This is shocking to us contemporary readers, partially because something this important was never taught to us in school, and partially because we realize we've fallen so solidly into the ever-dangerous trap of presentism. Perhaps the most important formal aspect of Illich's writing is that it remains accessible while also being academic; in other words, never does it reek of the overly editorialized popular book language of today. I'm sorry to say it, but contemporary editors and book publishers have destroyed books, all in a foolhearty effort to compete with social media and Ted Talks and other worthless things. As a result, they always emulate this noxious tone of voice which has far too much humor/faux-rebellion and pads everything with far too much summary/too short of chapters.
By contrast, Illich does a great job of giving us his own personality, all intermixed with glimpses into the text by Hugh as well as the medieval world that he was writing in. Though fads, fashions, and technologies change, the central thrust of Hugh's pedagogical message resonates forever: knowledge without wisdom is dangerous and disgusting. Today, we seek inhuman levels of "self improvement" at the cost of never zooming out to see the big picture. For Hugh and the other premoderns before him, there was no knowledge without morality. In his case, all knowledge was mentally categorized by chronology in the story of salvation. As a result, everything made much more sense, and learning, far from producing the anxiety we have today, was something that made sense of a larger whole.
Illich points out that "studying" in its etymological sense meant "affection, friendliness, devotion to another's welfare", rather than this cold utilitarian temporary memorization for a test, then jettisoning it into oblivion. In his day, they expected novices to remember what they read, essentially memorized, something which could be selected at will by recalling the "incipit", or first words of the text. The rest would pour out like dropping a scroll down the stairs. He started his novices off with that chronological rolodex I described above, but eventually they would learn to master a 3D schema for categorizing and locating knowledge, using Noah's Ark as the metaphor.
As I sometimes tell friends, there are certain books, like Scripture and Shakespeare, that I have to have a physical copy of when reading. I need to be able to underline, write in the margins, and otherwise Mark (ha) up the text. Thus, we with our codices (and increasingly our audiobooks, pdfs, ebooks) take for granted the portability and affordability of books. But for the medievals and earlier premoderns, texts were expensive, cumbersome things. Writing actually mattered, unlike us who shoot off drunken texts and tweets at all hours. For them, writing was a communal thing: normally it was dictated to a scribe, and some like Origen had even more complex systems of several rotating scribes writing shorthand on wax tablets who then gave their notes to calligraphers who wrote out the shorthand into longhand.
Whatever the particular level of complication, a basic collaborative aspect persisted: you rarely wrote something private. In one way, this would prevent a lot of the worthless drivel that gets written these days, but it also would cause some pressure in terms of what could and couldn't be said. It's a double-edged sword, but it forces one to think of how far this communal aspect pervaded their entire existence. Though some of us today act with God in the back of our minds, many people have successfully undone that conscience. For them, there was a continuity in terms of your actions being seen by God and your writings being seen by your compatriots at the monastery. "No Man is an Island" would have been redundant to tell them, since they hadn't yet forgotten it.
This general lack of a private individual lends credence to Harold Bloom's notion that Shakespeare created the individual, yet thankfully Illich doesn't fall into the same presentist trap that Postman and others often do. Niether does he waste time lamenting the long-gone past; instead, he lays out the developments with awe, mostly in service of a broader comprehension of literacy, communication, and knowledge transmission. It's important to root out our cliches when possible, and he does this in a way which doesn't make you feel bad for not knowing. If anything, he helps us appreciate the distance that small developments can make, like using alphabetic indexes and other "boring" things we take for granted. But we should lose our arrogance and remember that there's a billion things we don't appreciate which the next generations will discover and forget were ever new.
The biggest loss in my opinion has been the shift away from embodied reading. Illich makes a point of illustrating how for the Medievals, reading consisted of Ruminating on the text, reading it Aloud and reciting it to one's self when not in its presence. It was something physical, with the finger under the line of text, and it was something aural, with all the speaking, reciting, and dictating. I can't help but think that many if not most of our problems (personal and social) stem from forgetting about the body and denigrating it in the ways which modernity encourages. Similarly with us managing to forget that reading in our heads and writing silently are comparatively new, so also is this notion of dissolving into media and forgetting one's body. The old reactions to media digested it in various ways, like dancing when one heard music or reading aloud when one saw text. Our timidity is damnable, but it's far from permanent. All it takes is a critical mass of people not being embarrassed by our embodiment, and we could help heal some of the stupid self-inflicted wounds we're tricked into thinking are normal and normative.
In a modern world defined by people like Peter the Lombard who treat texts as resources to be quickly navigated and only partially digested, be a Hugh of St Victor, who "insists on patience and leisurely tasting of what can be found on the page." There's no rush. You have both the time and the duty to form a relationship with texts that really matter. AI can consume much more than any human ever can, so enjoy your slow consumption of the classics, the greats, the olds, because there's nothing worthwhile in the "news."