The classics. We don’t often get along. Most times, I avoid them thinking they are too hard to read or too boring, but they sometimes surprise me. Since starting this blog, I’ve realized that it’s best that I’m not forced to read the classics. I just about hated all the ones I was forced to read for classes, but when I picked up some on my own, I ended up liking them (The Great Gatsby) or was at least patient with them (She).
I owned more classics than I currently have on my shelves, but I donated a bunch to my library the last time I weeded my shelves. There were some I knew I’d never read (like a huge book of Edgar Allan Poe’s work I had. It was too big and intimidating. I’ll get access to his work some other way) and others I didn’t want to keep (again — She by H. Rider Haggard, which was racist, xenophobic, sexist, and every other negative thing but written quite well and was interesting in some parts).
I would like to read more classics — I even joined the Classics Club Reading Challenge to do so — but I read books based on my mood, and I never gravitate toward the classics. I keep telling myself that I’ll try harder, and I have, but it’s mostly to pick up small, quick reads, lol. But I’m optimistic that I’ll work through more of them eventually.
Anyway, we’re touring my second bookcase:
And we’re on the classics shelf — the shelf all the way at the bottom. We’re on the second row: