Consuming the Classics

Classic novels. I have the utmost respect for them; I think I have quite a good knowledge of them, but I haven’t actually read nearly enough of them.

As we all know, the Classics are truly wonderful, and deserve their status. They are the very best of literature, and have set the benchmark for most, if not all of the authors that are successful now. And given the fact that I am a writer myself, I know I really should take in a few more.

I keep telling myself that I am going to read more well-known books from the 19th and 20th centuries, but apart from one or two exceptions, I usually decide to keep to the tried and trusted crime novels or domestic/psychological thrillers.

And the strange thing is, it’s not like I haven’t enjoyed reading the Classics. I have enjoyed reading Dickens and George Orwell in the past, while Howards End by E.M. Forster has to be one of the best books I’ve ever been lucky enough to read.

It’s just automatic. When I’m looking around for new books to read, I almost always find myself checking out the latest releases, or other contemporary books. Then I choose one of them, and so the Classics return to the backburner.

So this year I set myself a reading target for the first time – 45 books. Now I am going to set myself a secondary target: Five of them have got to be officially recognised Classics. That might help me change my ways!

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