How to Read Nonfiction Like a Professor: A Smart, Irreverent Guide to Biography, History, Journalism, Blogs, and Everything in Between

“Let’s suppose that the worst thing you can do when reading nonfiction is to believe that everything you read is true. What’s the second worst? Not believing any of it.”

Through hypophora, Foster balances skepticism and trust, dramatizing a reader’s dilemma in a world of partial truths. His plain, conversational phrasing conceals the philosophical claim that uncritical faith and total disbelief (or cynicism) are equally destructive. The remark thematically encapsulates The Role of Skepticism and Trust in Reading Nonfiction, emphasizing that critical thinking requires both openness and restraint.

“That’s why the hook, that rhetorical or narrative gambit, is there at the front, something to win the readers’ goodwill and buy a little space to lay out the essentials of the work to follow.”

Foster explicitly defines the hook as a deliberate rhetorical strategy, exemplifying Rhetorical Strategies as Hidden Persuasion. He reveals how effective nonfiction builds reader trust through craft rather than content alone. His tone models the accessibility that he advocates, framing rhetorical technique as both an art and a readerly expectation.

“Authors for the most part do not wish for readers to be confused or to feel lost, so if we read with just a little bit of care, we generally understand where the book is headed by the end of the introduction and completely by the conclusion of the first chapter.”

This observation reinforces Foster’s emphasis on structure as communication, reminding readers that clarity and guidance are ethical responsibilities in nonfiction writing. The gentle, instructive tone (“with just a little bit of care”) frames reading as an act of mutual cooperation between author and reader.

“The field of nonfiction has just as many, and very likely more, genres than does fiction. Instead of horror, detective, historical romance, psychological realism, and so forth, it gives us biography, history, how-to, political analysis, sociology, art history, and a whole lot more.”

Foster notes that nonfiction is a field as rich and imaginative as fiction. His description conveys enthusiasm and authority while breaking down the misconception that nonfiction lacks creativity. By listing diverse genres, he thematically illustrates Empowering Readers Through Critical Literacy, encouraging readers to recognize nonfiction’s complexity and to approach it with the same analytical respect they afford to fiction.

“The writer of a prologue is under twin obligations, first to write something that will entice and tantalize, and second to make sure the rest of the book lives up to the promissory note that draws us in. In exchange, readers are under an obligation to give that prologue the attention it deserves.”

This passage highlights the reciprocal relationship between author and reader. Foster’s use of metaphor (describing a prologue as a “promissory note”) transforms reading into a moral contract based on trust and fulfillment. The formal phrasing evokes classical rhetoric, reinforcing the thematic link between the power of rhetorical strategy to persuade and the importance of skepticism and trust in the critical reading of nonfiction, wherein mutual responsibility governs honest engagement.

“Reading for information is a utilitarian enterprise: we want to find what is useful to us in our current activity without flooding our brain with information that might be useful to someone else or even us at some other time but that is useless at this moment.”

Here, Foster defines a pragmatic mode of reading through precise diction. The repetition of “useful” underscores the selective, time-bound nature of information consumption in the digital era. His analytical tone reminds readers that awareness of purpose determines how effectively one processes nonfiction.

“As you well know, you are a fair-minded person, able to overcome any preexisting biases or prejudices that you might have. Which you don’t. Have biases, that is.”

Foster uses sarcasm and verbal irony to expose readers’ self-deceptive confidence in their own objectivity. The abrupt sentence fragments mimic conversational speech, emphasizing humor while prompting self-reflection. By implicating the readers, he thematically illustrates the role of skepticism and trust in reading nonfiction, urging readers to confront their own bias before evaluating others’ bias.

“A woman in my situation would merely have had to stake a claim to authority to receive a much greater volume of nastiness. Why? Because her hard-won knowledge and insight is threatening in some quarters. Because she earned something that someone else lacks or fears or feels intimidated by.”

Foster blends analysis and advocacy using anaphora (“Because […] Because […] Because”) to expose systemic bias against women in positions of expertise. The cumulative rhythm conveys both empathy and controlled indignation, balancing scholarly observation with moral clarity. The example thematically supports empowering readers through critical literacy by urging awareness of how prejudice shapes whose authority society validates or denies.

“But there should be some things that all rational people can agree on: that some sources routinely traffic in falsehoods, that others make mistakes but own up to them, that certain bad actors (often from outside the country) deliberately plant untrue material in the public consciousness, and that we all have to put in some work to dig out informational treasures and throw out the trash.”

Foster’s cumulative syntax, layering clauses to build momentum toward a pragmatic conclusion, mirrors the complexity of truth in the modern media landscape. His inclusive “we” reasserts collective responsibility. The final metaphor, “dig out informational treasures and throw out the trash,” uses tangible imagery to translate abstract ethical labor into everyday action.

“Shakespeare knew what he was doing when he had Claudius say in Hamlet that ‘when sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions.’ And maybe when he gave such a line to the villain.”

Foster’s allusion to Hamlet bridges classical tragedy and modern journalism, illustrating how patterns of calamity arrive in clusters. The passage uses literary echo to elevate reportage into moral commentary, blending high-cultural reference with contemporary critique.

“Well, ain’t that just the way? You get a brand-new, shiny literary form, all full of possibilities and freedom, and the first thing somebody wants to do is start imposing rules and limitations.”

Here, Foster’s colloquial diction and sarcastic tone capture his amusement at how innovation quickly ossifies into convention. The informal tone mimics conversational exasperation while reinforcing his theme of creative resistance. This playful irony embodies the theme of rhetorical strategies as hidden persuasion, engaging readers emotionally while arguing for artistic flexibility in new journalism.

“In its truest form, the essay is an exploration of the self and some aspect of the world.”

Foster defines the essay as both an inward and outward inquiry. The line’s measured cadence mirrors the reflective tone of essay writing. It underscores the theme of empowering readers through critical literacy, providing a reminder that authentic essays pursue understanding rather than persuasion.

“Why two? Why not seven? Do differences of opinion exist only in dichotomies, polar opposites holding themselves in repulsive balance? I’m sure it has something to do with the American two-party system, although that has the effect of reinforcing an idea that is far from inevitable.”

Foster’s string of rhetorical questions destabilizes binary thinking, turning analysis into interrogation. His scientific metaphor of “repulsive balance” gives physical texture to ideological tension. The reflective tone invites readers to reconsider entrenched political logic, thematically advancing the role of skepticism and trust in reading nonfiction by modeling intellectual independence.

“Have autobiographies always had such a sketchy relation to the truth? The real truth is that we cannot know. If we go back to something like the beginning, to, say, Augustine’s Confessions (ca. 400 C.E.), we find ourselves hampered by a serious lack of external sources.”

The juxtaposition of rhetorical questioning with scholarly precision reveals Foster’s method of combining skepticism and research. His conversational qualifier (“to, say,”) lightens the erudition of the historical reference, while the repetition of “truth” dramatizes its illusiveness. The passage exemplifies the theme of rhetorical strategies as hidden persuasion, teaching through curiosity rather than assertion.

“These days every candidate for president must present an autobiography detailing his formative experiences and political-spiritual growth; the universal subtitle could be ‘Who I Am and How I Got This Way.’”

Foster’s sardonic humor and his invented subtitle parody the self-mythologizing tone of political memoirs. The mock subtitle satirizes how personal narrative becomes campaign branding. His witty generalization reinforces critical literacy by teaching readers to detect performance beneath confession.

“The world of nonfiction divides human experience into two time frames: Now and Everything Before Now.”

This aphorism uses antithesis and capitalization to impose order on history’s chaos. The declarative rhythm mirrors scientific classification, suggesting that chronology shapes understanding. By distilling complex historiography into a memorably binary, Foster exemplifies clarity as persuasion.

“This will surprise almost none of you, but publishing is a fashion industry.”

Through self-aware understatement and ironic phrasing, Foster turns an industry critique into conversational insight. The use of direct address (“almost none of you”) forges camaraderie, invoking his background as a professor while undercutting pretense. His half-amused, half-critical tone thematically reflects rhetorical strategies as hidden persuasion, prompting readers to question cultural trends that shape literary value.

“But a writer of nonfiction is not a novelist. Truth is not his to decide.”

The emphatic antithesis between “writer” and “novelist” crystallizes Foster’s ethical distinction between fact and fabrication. The terse, declarative style conveys moral authority, leaving no room for ambiguity. Through this passage, Foster asserts that truth must be discovered, not invented.

“Here are two statements that are logically incompatible but nevertheless true: (1) We are living in a great age of science writing, and (2) We are living in a wildly antiscientific age. Ain’t logic grand?”

Foster uses paradox and humor to dramatize the clash between scientific progress and public denial. The numbered structure mimics logical reasoning, while the ironic tag—“Ain’t logic grand?”—punctures intellectual rigidity. This blend of wit and contradiction exemplifies a persuasive rhetorical strategy of using comedy to deliver critique.

“Life is too short to read books and articles that waste our time with nonsense and misinformation.”

Here, Foster adopts a tone of pragmatic urgency, compressing moral and intellectual guidance into a single aphoristic statement. The directness empowers critical literacy by reminding readers that discernment is both an ethical and a practical responsibility.

“Friends, we’ve been living in a fools’ paradise. Welcome to the nightmare.”

Foster opens his discussion of internet culture with a dramatic tonal shift that merges humor, foreboding, and camaraderie. Addressing readers directly as “[f]riends,” he invokes the rhetorical intimacy before subverting it with apocalyptic irony. The juxtaposition between “paradise” and “nightmare” encapsulates the transformation of digital optimism into chaos, priming readers for his critique of how the internet’s “Great Leveling” has blurred the boundary between truth and falsehood.

“In a special circle of Hell (size yet to be determined) that Dante forgot to elaborate in The Inferno, this one reserved for deliberate misinformers, there will be a corporate division where Facebook, Twitter, Reddit, Snapchat, and their social media ilk will form a digital daisy chain as they gnaw on one another’s binary brains.”

Foster blends satire and moral indictment through an elaborate allusion to Dante’s Inferno. His parody of divine justice situates social media corporations within a “special circle of Hell,” using hyperbole to dramatize the moral decay of platforms driven by misinformation. The grotesque imagery of a “digital daisy chain” and “binary brains” fuses technological language with bodily horror, creating a vivid metaphor for self-consuming systems of deception. This passage exemplifies Foster’s capacity to fuse literary allusion, humor, and ethical critique within a single extended conceit.

“The real question is not how much work is needed, but how much is democracy worth to you?”

This rhetorical question reframes media literacy as a civic duty rather than a personal preference. By shifting emphasis from effort to value (“how much is democracy worth”), Foster challenges readers to equate the labor of verification with the preservation of democratic integrity.