It’s a quiet area of the library (not that the library is ever loud), a place where only the brave venture, where only determined parents and sadistic teachers walk freely. It’s a row of books with the dreaded brand on them, a line of volumes covering topics so vast that most wonder why they are grouped together.
Classics. The genre has been both dreaded and feared for generations. We see the word and think, “run for the hills! Flee from the onslaught of boredom, pain, and endless pages of old English and hidden meanings!”
I love to read—always have, always will. I’ve read everything from C.S. Lewis to Francine Rivers to James Patterson. I’ve read romance, thrillers, mysteries, short stories, and even a few plays. But the genre “classics” never made my list.
This all changed on my fourteenth birthday.
“I’m going to do something this year. I’m going to accomplish things actually worth something. That means, good-bye to the easy life—I’m taking the hard road this year.”
The words buzzed through the young girl’s mind, filling her with determination. Already she could see herself achieving great things, hard things, amazing things—scenes of possible projects danced before her eyes, dazzling her with their brilliance.
She flew higher and higher, and her dreams grew more and more grand—and then the bubble popped and she landed with a thump on her rear end.
“All right, time to be practical. After all, the journey of a thousand miles started with a single step. What goal can I set right now that I’ll actually fulfill?”
Well, I set many goals that day, including, (you guessed it,) the goal to journey to that isolated corner of the library and actually read some classics. I looked on the shelf, checked out two books, and embarked on an amazing journey.
Coming Up Soon!
Want a new perspective on Jane Austen, John Steinbeck, and other famous names? Check back soon for my reflection of “classic” works of literature.
No comments:
Post a Comment