Television

by Roald Dahl

The most important thing we’ve learned,
So far as children are concerned,
Is never, NEVER, NEVER let
Them near your television set –
Or better still, just don’t install
The idiotic thing at all.
In almost every house we’ve been,
We’ve watched them gaping at the screen.
They loll and slop and lounge about,
And stare until their eyes pop out.
(Last week in someone’s place we saw
A dozen eyeballs on the floor.)
They sit and stare and stare and sit
Until they’re hypnotised by it,
Until they’re absolutely drunk
With all that shocking ghastly junk.
Oh yes, we know it keeps them still,
They don’t climb out the window sill,
They never fight or kick or punch,
They leave you free to cook the lunch
And wash the dishes in the sink –
But did you ever stop to think,
To wonder just exactly what
This does to your beloved tot?
IT ROTS THE SENSE IN THE HEAD!
IT KILLS IMAGINATION DEAD!
IT CLOGS AND CLUTTERS UP THE MIND!
IT MAKES A CHILD SO DULL AND BLIND
HE CAN NO LONGER UNDERSTAND
A FANTASY, A FAIRYLAND!
HIS BRAIN BECOMES AS SOFT AS CHEESE!
HIS POWERS OF THINKING RUST AND FREEZE!
HE CANNOT THINK – HE ONLY SEES!
‘All right! ‘ you’ll cry. ‘All right! ‘ you’ll say,
‘But if we take the set away,
What shall we do to entertain
Our darling children? Please explain! ‘
We’ll answer this by asking you,
‘What used the darling ones to do?
‘How used they keep themselves contented
Before this monster was invented? ‘
Have you forgotten? Don’t you know?
We’ll say it very loud and slow:
THEY… USED… TO… READ! They’d READ and READ,
AND READ and READ, and then proceed
To READ some more. Great Scott! Gadzooks!
One half their lives was reading books!
The nursery shelves held books galore!
Books cluttered up the nursery floor!
And in the bedroom, by the bed,
More books were waiting to be read!
Such wondrous, fine, fantastic tales
Of dragons, gypsies, queens, and whales
And treasure isles, and distant shores
Where smugglers rowed with muffled oars,
And pirates wearing purple pants,
And sailing ships and elephants,
And cannibals crouching ’round the pot,
Stirring away at something hot.
(It smells so good, what can it be?
Good gracious, it’s Penelope.)
The younger ones had Beatrix Potter
With Mr. Tod, the dirty rotter,
And Squirrel Nutkin, Pigling Bland,
And Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle and-
Just How The Camel Got His Hump,
And How the Monkey Lost His Rump,
And Mr. Toad, and bless my soul,
There’s Mr. Rat and Mr. Mole-
Oh, books, what books they used to know,
Those children living long ago!
So please, oh please, we beg, we pray,
Go throw your TV set away,
And in its place you can install
A lovely bookshelf on the wall.
Then fill the shelves with lots of books,
Ignoring all the dirty looks,
The screams and yells, the bites and kicks,
And children hitting you with sticks-
Fear not, because we promise you
That, in about a week or two
Of having nothing else to do,
They’ll now begin to feel the need
Of having something to read.
And once they start – oh boy, oh boy!
You watch the slowly growing joy
That fills their hearts. They’ll grow so keen
They’ll wonder what they’d ever seen
In that ridiculous machine,
That nauseating, foul, unclean,
Repulsive television screen!
And later, each and every kid
Will love you more for what you did.

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Reflection

At first, it reads like a warning.

Sharp. Playful. A little exaggerated.

Turn off the television. Give children books instead. Protect imagination before it’s replaced by something louder, brighter, easier.

It’s easy to agree with.

Too easy.

Because if this poem only lived in the space of childhood habits, it wouldn’t still matter.

But it does.

Because Dahl isn’t just talking about screens.

He’s talking about attention.

About what fills the quiet space where imagination once lived.
About what happens when the mind stops generating and starts only receiving.
About the slow shift from participation to consumption.

And that shift doesn’t end with children.

We like to think we’ve outgrown the warning.

But most of us are still sitting in front of something.

Not always a television.

A feed.
A stream.
A constant flow of images and noise that asks nothing from us except presence—no effort, no interpretation, no creation.

It feels harmless.

It feels like rest.

But over time, something subtle begins to change.

The patience required to read begins to thin.
The ability to sit with silence becomes uncomfortable.
The imagination—the part that builds, questions, wanders—starts to rely on what it’s given instead of what it can make.

That’s the real cost Dahl is pointing toward.

Not stupidity.
Not ruin.

Diminishment.

A quieter, slower erosion of inner life.

Because imagination doesn’t disappear all at once.

It fades when it’s no longer needed.

And in a world that constantly provides images, stories, and conclusions, the need to imagine can feel optional.

But it isn’t.

Imagination is how we understand complexity.
How we create meaning.
How we step outside what is given and ask what could be different.

Without it, we don’t just lose creativity.

We lose depth.

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Reflection Prompts

• Where in your life are you consuming more than you are creating?
• When was the last time you sat in silence without reaching for distraction?
• What part of your imagination has gone quiet—not because it disappeared, but because it hasn’t been used?