What is Greatness?
That is the question. Reading the classics demands that we ask it. Mere acceptance that a book is great is not enough. Every time I open a classic I do so with trepidation. What if I hate it? What if this isn't love? Going to a shelf with a classic and picking one is like dating. We agree. OK. Give this a try. There may be hope. Should be any way. Let's be optimists. Things could turn out fine, better even, and maybe wonderful. These pages could do it for me. Be the great one. The classic to end all classics. The life changer. Bring it on! I leap into the abyss of the unknown. I let the classic take me where it wants. It leads. I don't. All plans are its author's not mine. I am just the reader. I must put aside that I also write.
When I read, I must go along placidly where the classic does. It's not my job to choose the route or even the venue for our date. Yes, reading is that intimate to me. It is from the moment I see the cover like seeing my date come through the door. First impressions count. Then, what is said and done throughout the night. Now, some books like dates go on for longer than others. Classics especially can be long. Awkward moments. Dull bits. Confusion. All these can be part of the most wonderful nights. That is the same with reading classics. The greatest can be rough around the edges or go on for what seems forever. Melville and Tolstoy are wooers who take their time. They wear me down until my heart opens. Woolf feigns lack of interest. She will keep me awake after. Kundera will be offensive then make me laugh. Conrad will make me cry and want to hit him. Agee will tap into my childhood traumas. Flaubert will see through me like an x-ray and make me blush. Faulkner will make me run, then handing me a flower will win me back. Baldwin, dear Baldwin, I will want to hug. There are so many. My list could go on.
I won't read and tell more. That's between classics and me. One thing alone is true of them all. They don't follow rules. They break them. They scoff at boundaries. They dare themselves. And they reach for greatness. Every one of them is a Rocky.
When I read, I must go along placidly where the classic does. It's not my job to choose the route or even the venue for our date. Yes, reading is that intimate to me. It is from the moment I see the cover like seeing my date come through the door. First impressions count. Then, what is said and done throughout the night. Now, some books like dates go on for longer than others. Classics especially can be long. Awkward moments. Dull bits. Confusion. All these can be part of the most wonderful nights. That is the same with reading classics. The greatest can be rough around the edges or go on for what seems forever. Melville and Tolstoy are wooers who take their time. They wear me down until my heart opens. Woolf feigns lack of interest. She will keep me awake after. Kundera will be offensive then make me laugh. Conrad will make me cry and want to hit him. Agee will tap into my childhood traumas. Flaubert will see through me like an x-ray and make me blush. Faulkner will make me run, then handing me a flower will win me back. Baldwin, dear Baldwin, I will want to hug. There are so many. My list could go on.
I won't read and tell more. That's between classics and me. One thing alone is true of them all. They don't follow rules. They break them. They scoff at boundaries. They dare themselves. And they reach for greatness. Every one of them is a Rocky.
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