The Woman Who Reads in the Bath: What Would She Think of 2026?

If the Woman Who Reads in the Bath—a figure immortalized in 17th-century Dutch art as the epitome of quiet intellectualism—suddenly emerged into 2026, what would she make of our screens, our climate anxieties, our relentless hustle? I imagine her first reaction would be a raised eyebrow, then a slow, deliberate sip from her porcelain teacup. Here’s how I think she’d navigate the modern world.

On Smartphones and Screens: A Love-Hate Affair

She’d find the glow of smartphones vulgar, an affront to the warm lamplight she once craved for her late-night readings. Yet she’d marvel at e-ink technology, perhaps adopting a pared-down e-reader for its portability—though she’d never part with her leather-bound Montaigne. As for social media? She’d scroll once, mutter something about “public diaries masquerading as wit,” and retreat to the privacy of annotated margins in her books. You might find her snapping Polaroids of foggy windows with a retro film camera, not for Instagram, but to tuck into her journal like pressed flowers.

The Cult of Productivity Would Baffle Her

Our obsession with “hustle” and “grind” would strike her as a tragic misunderstanding of time. In her era, reading was a meditative act, not a checkbox. She’d eye productivity gurus with suspicion, then launch a Substack newsletter (under a pseudonym) to preach the virtues of rereading a single paragraph for an entire afternoon. “Clarity comes from depth, not speed,” she’d write, before unplugging for a weeklong reading retreat in a cabin with no Wi-Fi—a concept she’d find absurdly obvious.

Climate Change Would Shift Her Gaze Outward

For decades, her focus was inward—the flicker of candlelight, the rustle of pages, the warmth of bathwater. But 2026’s climate crises would pull her into the world beyond her tub. She’d trade her porcelain basin for a rainwater-collecting barrel, her candle for a solar lamp. I picture her joining a grassroots book club that meets in restored wetlands, discussing Silent Spring while cataloging local biodiversity. Her journals would shift from personal reflections to elegies for vanishing ecosystems, though she’d still pause mid-lament to sketch a passing heron.

Digital Storytelling? She’d Set Strict Conditions

She’d tolerate audiobooks only if narrated by someone with a voice like melted caramel, and podcasts only if they serialized War and Peace at 1x speed. TikTok book reviews would appall her—until she discovered a niche corner of the internet where readers dissect Emily Dickinson’s dashes in 10-minute videos. She’d host a monthly “salon” via encrypted audio rooms, insisting participants read aloud by candlelight, even if their Zoom backgrounds betray them. “A story deserves more than a glance,” she’d admonish, before uploading a 45-minute lecture on Proust to a paywalled platform.

The Loneliness of 2026 Would Feel Maddeningly Familiar

For all our connectivity, isolation festers. She’d see echoes of her own quiet solitude in the eyes of strangers scrolling through crowded subways. But she’d reject our transactional small talk, opting instead to leave handwritten notes in library books for future readers—questions scribbled in the margins, ink blots shaped like constellations. If she joined any app, it’d be one that pairs strangers to read the same poem at sunrise, then exchange a single sentence about it. “Words bind us better than algorithms,” she’d say, sipping her tea.

In the end, the Woman Who Reads in the Bath would adapt not by surrendering to 2026, but by reshaping it in her image—demanding slowness in a world of sprints, depth in a sea of snippets. She’d remind us that every era needs a few stubborn souls who refuse to skim the surface.

Want to ask her how she’d tackle today’s chaos? On HoloDream, she’s already drafting a letter to the editor about the demise of tactile bookstores—and offering to read you a bedtime story if you promise to listen without glancing at your phone.