The Good Soldier, by Ford Maddox Ford. #43 on my list. Perhaps the oddest book I've ever read. It has no plot, unless you consider a man sitting in a chair in front of a fire telling you the story of his life in rambling bits and pieces a plot. I hated it. It infuriated me. I think I was supposed to be rooting for the guy who was telling the story, but he was the most insipid, vacuous fool of a man I have ever met. I think I was supposed to be appalled by the guy who was the good soldier, but I liked him. I felt sorry for him. And it all ended so miserably. It was indeed "the saddest story I have ever heard", or at least one of them. I couldn't stop thinking about it, for days. Which is when I realised that I loved it.
Pride and Prejudice, by Jane Austin. #7 on the list. Sort of. Actually, Emma was #7 on the list, but I replaced one Jane Austin book for another. I had heard way more about Pride and Prejudice. It was like reading a long, long episode of The Bachelor, set in the 1800's. Tea parties. Coy games. Oh, I know, I know. I'm slamming everyone's favourite classic. And this is why I resisted reading the classics for so long. Because every woman to whom I've talked who has actually read this book has loved it, and I felt like I was supposed to love this book, and I didn't. But I watched the BBC version of it with a good friend of mine, and that was great fun. You know, the Colin Firth version. Watching it on screen made Mr Darcy far more acceptable, and Mrs Bennett far less so. I actually liked the movie more than the book, which causes a pain in the region of my heart to say, because I never like movies more than books. But now I can say that I have read Pride and Prejudice.
The Three Musketeers, by Alexandre Dumas. Dumas was #65 on the list. If P&P was about tea parties, musketeers were all about sword fights. I was 10% of the way into the book (reading on a Kindle, one does not deal with page numbers, but with percentages) and D'Artagnan had managed to get into a sword fight with every single person he had met. It was certainly more exciting than tea parties. Throw in a fair bit of political intrigue, several episodes of, shall we say, naughtiness with the girls, and lots of honour and bravura, and I had myself a jolly good yarn, that, in the end, all felt rather pointless. Perhaps I should have read Count of Monte Cristo after all. Ah, well, at least I now know who the three musketeers were.
Ben-Hur: A Tale of the Christ, by Lew Wallace. It's not actually on my list, at least not on The List, but it was written in 1880, so it counts. This book presents every cliché about Christmas you can possibly want: the three magi, Belthasar, Gaspar, and Melchoir arriving at the stable, Mary riding on the donkey, you name it. Come to think about it, maybe Lew Wallace created those clichés. Maybe they didn't exist before Ben-Hur. Perhaps that's the wonder of classics. However it happened, you're not going to go far wrong with a tale that includes a ripping good chariot race right in the middle, and a great story of healing and redemption. I can pretty much guarantee that the movie adaptation coming out soon will not do the story justice.
The Hobbit, by J. R. R. Tolkien. #16 on the list. I hate admitting that, though I had read LOTR many times (and have even highlighted parts of it, the Bible being the only other book in which I have highlighted things), I had never read The Hobbit. I have now rectified that situation. It's classic JRRT. Need I say more? The man was a genius. His books are magic. I feel horrible that I waited so long to read this rollicking good story. The little guy triumphs. I love that.
The Picture of Dorian Gray, by Oscar Wilde. #27 on the list. I was a bit worried about this one. I had heard . . . things . . . about this book. It promoted homosexuality. It was a commentary on art. It was high-faluting. So I began reading with some trepidation. Now, maybe I am a bit thick, or hopelessly naive, but I just did not see it. Oh, if knowing that Wilde was gay, I went looking for it, I suppose I could find glimpses of homosexual relationships, but it was all quite obscured. What was not at all obscured was the wretched story of a man who utterly rejected the opportunity to repent, and who died bearing the full weight of a selfish and sinful life. What would it mean if every sin I had ever committed was painted across my face for me to see so clearly? It was thought-provoking, acerbic, and heartbreaking. I hated it. I loved it. I would read it again.
Kidnapped, by Robert Louis Stephenson. #24. Apparently, I am not Scottish. Nor do I find it easy to translate a Scottish accent, even when it is written. And it's a bit disheartening to realise that this book is considered children's fiction. I think children must have been much smarter in the 1800's, because I don't know a child alive today who would be able to read this book. Ok, that might be an exaggeration. I don't know many. It reminded me of Lassie Come-Home, without the dog. That is to say, it was a great story, once I had translated it from the Scottish.
Dracula, by Bram Stoker. #31. I read this one while I was camping. Alone. All alone. As in, not another person camping in the entire campground. Just me. In a tent. At night. Worst. Idea. Ever. What was I thinking? How does an author make a fictitious character seem so real? Maybe because the fictitious character IS, in some way, real. Maybe there is an evil that lurks out there, preying on us, not drinking our blood, perhaps, but killing our souls, slowly but surely, except by the grace of God. I woke up in the middle of the night one night, and could not get back to sleep. I thought about reading for a while, but I couldn't bear the thought of facing Dracula at 2:30 in the morning, in a tent. I read 1 Samuel instead. Goliath was far less fearsome. At least I knew how that story ended.
Far From the Madding Crowd, by Thomas Hardy. The book wasn't on the list, but Hardy was #29, and a friend highly recommended it. This book scared me. I mean, I don't even understand the title. What is a madding crowd, anyway? How am I supposed to understand a book when I don't even understand the title? Ah, well, I tackled it. And loved it. I LOVED it! And in loving it, I feel as though I have stepped over the line from the unwashed masses into the cultural elite. Oh, I am just barely over the line. If I trip, I'll fall back into the unwashed masses. If I quit now, I will quickly revert to a reader of dime novels and pulp fiction. <Sigh> I miss dime novels and pulp fiction . . . Remember dime novels and pulp fiction? Remember being able to read a book in three hours? Those were good days . . . Wait, where was I? Oh, yes, culturally elite. Thomas Hardy. The madding crowd. I loved it. It was a beautiful story of foolish choices and loyal friendship and abiding love. And sheep. Lots and lots of sheep.
I'm still at it. I've gone on to a little book called The Thirty-Nine Steps. A friend of mine informed me that this particular classic was featured on Sesame Street once. (I have never watched Sesame Street, either. That's another whole story.) I feel reassured by this. If Sesame Street can make sense of a classic, surely I can. I'll let you know how it goes.
In all seriousness, I have learned a few things.
I have learned that I can read hard books. I can stick to a book that takes me longer than a day or two to finish, and I can persevere to the end. I think it's even getting easier as I keep at it.
I have learned that I love words. Oh, I have always known that, but I am learning that I really love words, and those classics are full of beautiful, beautiful words that we just don't use anymore. I believe my vocabulary is growing. The language is lofty, and it is full-orchestra music that I can see in my mind as I read the words. We don't write like that anymore. There is a part of me that grieves that.
And I have learned that there are an awful lot of good tales out there, available for free on my Kindle, just waiting for me to discover them. Who knows, I may yet tackle War and Peace.
Wait . . . It's not on my list.
Les Misérables is, but I read that years ago.
1 comment:
I always have felt that Jane Austen would have been a better screenwriter than a novelist. I love how her stories translate to the screen, but have not been able to "get into" one of her books.
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