Reading is often described as a private act, a silent conversation between a reader and a page. Yet this description overlooks the forces that shape both the text and the person holding it. Every book, article, or poem arrives embedded in a specific context: the time and place of its creation, the author's background, the intended audience, and the cultural assumptions that underpin its arguments. When we read, we do not simply absorb information; we enter a relationship with these contexts. The power of reading lies in our ability to recognise that relationship and to question it. A text that once seemed neutral can, under scrutiny, reveal its biases, its silences, and its strategies of persuasion. Understanding context is therefore not an optional extra in literary study; it is the foundation of critical engagement. Without it, we risk mistaking a single perspective for universal truth.

Consider the difference between reading a political speech from the 1960s and reading one delivered last week. The earlier speech may use language that now sounds dated or even offensive, but its original audience would have heard it differently. The context of the civil rights movement, Cold War tensions, and limited media channels gave that speech a weight and urgency that a modern reader might miss. Conversely, a contemporary speech is shaped by instant fact-checking, social media reaction, and a global audience. The power dynamics have shifted: speakers today must anticipate multiple interpretations and defend their claims in real time. By comparing these two contexts, we see that meaning is not fixed. It is negotiated between the text, its historical moment, and the reader's own position. Reading becomes an act of translation across time, requiring us to reconstruct the world in which the text made sense.

This negotiation is especially visible when we examine who gets to speak and who is silenced. For centuries, the literary canon was dominated by voices from a narrow range of backgrounds: white, male, educated, and wealthy. Their works were treated as universal, while texts from women, colonised peoples, and working-class writers were dismissed as marginal or inferior. Reading with an awareness of power means asking why certain voices were amplified and others suppressed. It means recognising that the act of canon formation is itself a political process, one that reflects the interests of those in control of publishing, education, and criticism. When we read a novel by Jane Austen, we are not just encountering a story about manners; we are also encountering a world that excluded the experiences of servants, slaves, and the poor. Context reveals these absences, and power explains why they persisted.

The context of the civil rights movement, Cold War tensions, and limited media channels gave that speech a weight and urgency that a modern reader might miss.

The same principle applies to non-fiction and academic writing. A scientific paper from the 1950s may present its findings as objective, but a reader attuned to context will notice the assumptions about race, gender, or class that shaped the research questions and interpretations. For example, early psychological studies often used only male subjects and then generalised the results to all humans. The power of the scientific establishment gave these studies authority, even though their conclusions were flawed. Reading critically means not taking authority at face value. It means examining the funding sources, the institutional affiliations, and the prevailing ideologies that influence what counts as knowledge. In this sense, reading is a form of detective work: we gather clues about the conditions under which a text was produced and use them to assess its claims.

Comparative reading sharpens this skill further. When we place two texts side by side, their contexts become more visible. A colonial travelogue and an indigenous oral history of the same event will differ not only in facts but in worldview. The travelogue may frame the encounter as discovery and progress; the oral history may frame it as invasion and loss. Neither is a transparent window onto reality. Each is shaped by the power relations between the writer and the subject. By comparing them, we see how context determines what is emphasised, what is omitted, and what is taken for granted. This practice teaches us that no single text can tell the whole story. It also trains us to hold multiple perspectives in mind without rushing to resolve their contradictions. In a world saturated with competing narratives, this ability is essential.

Evaluation, then, becomes a matter of weighing evidence and considering purpose. A text that is persuasive in one context may be unconvincing in another. A political pamphlet written to rally supporters uses different rhetorical strategies than a peer-reviewed journal article. Both can be effective within their own spheres, but they answer to different standards of proof and accountability. When we evaluate a text, we must ask: What is this text trying to do? Who is it trying to reach? What assumptions does it rely on? And whose interests does it serve? These questions move us beyond simple judgments of 'good' or 'bad' writing. They invite us to see texts as strategic interventions in ongoing conversations. The power of a text lies not only in its content but in its timing, its audience, and its ability to shape what is considered normal or acceptable.

Ultimately, what reading changes is our understanding of how the world is described and who gets to describe it. Every text is a product of its context and a bid for power over meaning. By learning to read context and power, we become more than consumers of information; we become participants in the ongoing construction of knowledge. We recognise that the stories we inherit are not inevitable, and that we have the capacity to question, reinterpret, and even rewrite them. This is the deepest lesson of literary study: reading is not passive reception but active engagement. It changes how we see the past, how we navigate the present, and how we imagine the future. For Year 12 students preparing to enter a world of complex texts and competing claims, this awareness is not just academic—it is essential for informed citizenship.