I have a friend who’s read almost every classic piece of literature there is, on her own. A few of them we had to read in school, but all those others…yeah, she read them on her own time. For enjoyment.
I hear a lot of people do this sort of thing; pick up an old, thick book that’s been embedded in the literary canon for centuries and read it in a hammock or by the fire, soaking up the famous words for their own benefit. It sounds impressive. Especially to me – because almost every classic novel I’ve read has bored me into a coma.
It occurred to me that this was going to be an issue among my peers as soon as I hit high school. While all my other writing / book nerd buddies found Jane Austin to be a delightful romp, I had to virtually skim the chapters because it annoyed me too much to read slowly. And while they were all recieving A’s on their essays about The Awakening, I was busy getting the lowest essay grade of my life, because all I could stand to write about was how much I hated the protagonist and good lord why was she so selfish?! My teacher told me I missed the point of the story. Maybe I did. But whatever. That book pissed me off. Big time.
Later on, during one summer off from college, I tried to read The Sound and the Fury because I figured I couldn’t be a real writer unless I had Faulkner under my belt. I tried really, really hard to get through it. But not even with cliff notes bought with my own money could I push my way to the end. To this day, whenever someone talks about that book, I pretend I read it to join in on the conversation with a white-knuckled hope nobody ever asks me anything detailed.
I was still trying to become part of the literary elite in grad school. Still trying to read what everyone was telling me I should read. But since I was insanely busy, I decided a book on tape would be a great way to get in some healthy classic novel material while I road the subways and walked the New York City streets. I bought Wuthering Heights off of iTunes, loaded it onto my iPod, and got excited that I would finally get all the way through a classic.
Sadly, after only a few listens, Wuthering Heights and it’s rhythmic, soothing British author ended up being my surefire way to get to sleep at the end of a 13 hour day.
There’s been other half-hearted attempts at tapping into the Famous Author canon, but none of them have ever gone well. I think the only classic piece of literature I’ve actually enjoyed was The Little Princess. And I was 12. And probably read the abridged version.
Frankly, I’m not sure what this means. It may mean that I have lower-than-highbrow taste; which, if you knew how much reality television I watch, could definitely be the answer. It may also mean that I’m just not interested in something that doesn’t immediately help me forget about the world around me. Reading someone’s gripping memoir or a great coming of age novel always seems to transport my mind. Reading Ayn Rand…not so much.
Is there anyone else out there like me? Are you a writer who shudders at the thought of reading something with “classic” on the back cover too? Or am I like those mythic white hippos; so rare that it’s barely plausible I exist?
[Wait! Before you go, I thought of one classic that I actually half enjoyed: Jane Eyre. Why? I can't exactly remember, but probably because there was a Real Housewives-like twist of a crazy old ex-lover...]
















