Reading Update

I've finally gotten to the point in my reading list for this year where I will make my first real volley into Medieval literature.  I'm starting it with three books that will perhaps help me understand the actual Medieval texts better.  First, Terry Jones' Medieval Lives by Terry Jones & Alan Ereira, which I am half-way through.  Next will either be C.S. Lewis' The Discarded Image or 1066 by David Howarth.  These are all three decidedly English, though Lewis' work will be more cosmopolitan than the other two, I'm sure.  I would argue that most of the Medieval works I'll be reading are English, but only three are: Ecclesiastical History of the English People, History of the Kings of Britain, and The Canterbury Tales.  I'll be starting with The Consolation of Philosophy and going through Gargantua and Pentagruel by Rabelais.  Boethius is from the early Middle Ages--quaintly known as the "Dark Ages"--and his Consolation was widely popular throughout the entire Medieval period.  It was a personal favorite of Alfred the Great.  Rabelais wrote during the French Renaissance, but the 16th century isn't really that far off from the end of the Middle Ages, and it'll be good to see it's influence on such a prominent Renaissance writer.  Also, I really want to read it.
After Boethius I'll be reading Confessions by Saint Augustine, though I'm thinking of reading Augustine first, as he was the earlier writer.  I suppose I have two more books to read before I have to make that decision.  Part of me is a bit concerned I'll be burnt out on it by the end, and maybe I will.  Six or seven Medieval texts in a row can be straining, I suppose.  That's why I'll be reading something light at the end.  I mean, Rabelais is known as "scatological humor."  I've also heard Gargantua and Pentagruel referred to as the French Don Quixote, but I think that's an unfair comparison.
I hope to be updating more often with thoughts on what I'll be reading, but we'll see.  I've been spending less and less time on the internet lately.  I'm not sure why, but it just hasn't been as appealing as other things.

William Makepeace Thakeray: Second isn't Always the First Loser

William Thackeray had his nose broken twice by two different boys.  That's why his nose looks the way it does in pictures.  But how many men can say they had their nose broken by a friend of Tennyson?  Of course, George Stovin Venables wasn't Alfred Tennyson's friend at the time.  Nor was he yet a Fellow at Jesus College, Cambridge.  He was a fellow student with Thackeray at Charterhouse School, the third school he had attended.
Venables described Thackeray as "a pretty, gentle, and rather timid boy."  My response to that would've been, "So why did you break this timid boy's nose?"  We don't know if his broken nose was the result of a swift punch in the face or came about after a fight between the two boys, but we do know that before the first broken nose was finished healing, it was broken again by another boy whose name is unknown to history.
So why all the violence towards this "pretty, gentle, and rather timid boy"?  Knowing what we know about Thackeray today, it's easy to assume he was a sharp witted youth who perhaps made statements his fists couldn't back up.  But if Thackeray was anything like the title character from his novel The History of Pendennis, which he most likely was considering it's autobiographical nature, it is very likely that Venables and this mystery boy were defending themselves against an easily provoked youth.  (Interestingly enough, Venables is said to be the basis for George Warrington, the bosom buddy of Arthur Pendennis.)
We can make some fair assumptions about an author based on their body of work.  For example, only using his works to study him, we can assume Dickens was a sentimental, enthusiastic, compassionate, optimistic, and often ridiculous man.  Thackeray, on the other hand, it would be safe to assume, was abrasive, intelligent, witty, pessimistic, and perhaps a bit of a rascal.  I'd also say he had a strong appreciation for justice and morality, a characteristic he shared with Dickens.  I think it is ever so likely that he quite possibly deserved a punch in the face and possibly gave as good as he got.
In a scene early on in Pendennis, Arthur strikes down a boy for making a rude comment to him regarding an attachment he had made to a low-bred actress.  Hobnell Major is surrounded by his friends, but Arthur, not standing for any jokes at his expense, leaps upon him and knocks him down into an open grave and turns upon Major's friends to see if any of them will have some of the same.  They decline.  It is a very intense scene, and in all likelihood is nothing more than wish fulfillment.  Of course, history doesn't record how many times Thackeray was the one breaking noses, so I suppose we'll never know.

Thackeray, age 2, with his mother Anne

We do know that this timid boy was also a mamma's boy.  Born in Calcutta in 1811, Thackeray can never really claim to have known his father, who died in 1815.  His mother, however, outlived Thackeray by a year, dying in 1864.  She returned to England in 1819, remarried to an old flame, who Thackeray admired and used for inspiration in his novel The Newcomes, narrated by Arthur Pendennis.  From Pendennis alone, we can see something that goes beyond merely a deep appreciation for the matronly figure.  Thackeray's mother would serve, for him, as the prime example of the best in womankind.
When he came of age (twenty-one), he received his inheritance, which he quickly squandered away on gambling as well as funding two unsuccessful newspapers.  He was rather idle in his youth, and after his money was nearly wasted away, he began to consider art a viable source of income.  It was not until after his marriage in 1836 to Isabella Shawe that he seriously turned to writing, which, as history clearly shows, he did pretty well with.
His wife "went mad" in 1840, after the birth of their third daughter.  He spent less time at home after this so he could get work done, but after feeling guilty, he went back to take care of her.  In hopes of curing her, he took her on a trip to Ireland, but while on the way, she threw herself overboard.  She was rescued.  It's easy to assume this was postpartum depression, but considering that she eventually detached from reality altogether and never recovered, confined to a home in Paris for the rest of  her life, it's possible it was something else.  Thackeray looked eagerly for a cure, but never found one.
Being essentially a widower, he did pursued two women after this, one a married woman named Jane Brookfield, whose husband barred him from seeing her, and another named Sally Baxter, an American twenty years his junior, who married someone else in 1855.  Of course, we cannot assume Thackeray was as virtuous as his fictional self, though I will not presume to say if he had a physical relationship with either Mrs. Brookfield or Miss Baxter.  His wife died in 1893, outliving him by thirty years.

Thackeray's caricature of himself

Thackeray's interest in the feminine character is shown throughout his works.  Perhaps this understanding of women is due to his unique relationships with them, as well as the fact that he had three daughters, though the second born died after eight months.  His mad wife might also explain, in part, his interest in Jane Eyre, which he said he read in one sitting.
Thackeray was not unfamiliar with illness.  One such illness struck him in the middle of writing Pendennis and, as he indicated in the dedication to that novel, nearly ended the novel prematurely.  Despite this, he went on to produce several novels afterwords, most notably The Newcomes and his personal favorite The History of Henry Esmond, a novel George Eliot called "the most uncomfortable book you can imagine."
His health began to deteriorate more noticeably in the 1850's, when he was stuck in bed for days at a time.  Much to be expected from a man like Thackeray, rather than help himself, he over ate and drank, as well as got little exercise.  To top things off, he refused to give up spicy peppers, which only worsened his digestion.
On the 23rd of December in 1863, he died of a stroke while getting ready for bed, after coming home from a dinner, where you can be sure he eat and drank his fill.  But it seems to me, if he had given up the drink, the peppers, and the abundance of food, if he had gotten more exercise, we may have gotten a few more years out of him; but it wouldn't seem like William Makepeace Thackeray to me. The savage satirist went out in pure Thackerayan style: stubborn and irascible, just like his most famous characters.
Seven years later, the only writer of the era rated higher than Thackeray would also die of a stroke in his home, Gad's Hill Place, ending what some consider to be the greatest days of the novel.  Today, that man--Charles Dickens--is better known and more appreciated, but there is a reason why Thackeray was second only to Dickens in his day.  They two were distinctly different animals from the other novelists of their day.  In a way, they are two sides of the same coin: Dickens the optimist and Thackeray the pessimist.  But to truly understand the Victorian period, it is necessary to read both, and thoroughly.  Sure, there are other Victorian authors ones need to read--when studying the era--but I deride an Academia that can award someone a masters in Victorian literature without requiring them to read a word of Thackeray.

Modernism: An Art of Confusion?

I like a good Scotch, but sometimes I'm just in the mood to sip on some cider and relax.  That's the way I feel about literature.  I don't want every book I read to force me to ruminate over each chapter and read multiple essays about it just to understand what it's about.  Sometimes I like a simple narrative, an enjoyable story.  There's nothing wrong with that, though some people tend to think that this attitude makes you a simpleton, that you should always be challenging yourself.  I don't need to challenge myself with every read to feel like I accomplished something at the end of it.

This is not the face of a man who takes things lightly.

I read Bruno Schulz' two collections of short stories first thing this year--technically G.K. Chesterton was first thing, but it was started in 2010--so once that was done, I was tired.  Literally, worn out.  I switched to H.G. Wells.  I didn't think The Croquet Player was going to be as haunting as it was.  Now, I'm reading The Moon and Sixpence by W. Somerset Maugham.  While I wouldn't call him simple, I would say that he has Victorian sensibilities when it comes to storytelling.  He writes a plain narrative, and while he talks about deep issues, he talks about them simply.  And to be honest, I'm getting more out of The Moon and Sixpence then I did out of all of Bruno Schulz.  Maybe Maugham wasn't as good a writer as Schulz, but Maugham was the most popular British author since Charles Dickens.  He wrote things people connected to, and frankly, it's hard to connect to something you don't understand.

T.S. Eliot, looking so cash.

T.S. Eliot said that modern novelists, like modern poets, should be difficult.  I disagree.  I like T.S. Eliot, but there's a reason why Byron is my favorite poet.  Some might say it's apples and oranges.  All I know is, the Romantics had quite a lot of important things to say and they said them clearly and wonderfully.  I'm not entirely sure what Eliot was trying to say; all I know if he said it beautifully.
Let's be honest here, many of the greatest works in literature were simple stories.  Sometimes they told cavernously deep messages, but the stories were enjoyable, even if you missed the message.  The stories of Shakespeare were written to do two things: entertain and sell.  Marlowe was a bit deeper, but he's also not as well beloved.  Don Quixote is a simple, entertaining story.  One could study it for years and find many things to talk about, but to enjoy it, one simply has to read it.  The same can be said of Dickens or Thackeray.  They wrote to entertain, themselves and the people.  They also wrote with important messages, and they felt little reason to hide those messages behind obscure prose.
I'm not saying writers such as Joyce, Kafka, Schulz, or Eliot are bad writers for creating difficult and challenging literature; but I am saying that just because they are difficult does not make them better.  Like I said, I've been more challenged by Maugham than Schulz, and I think the reason might just be that I've comprehended more of Maugham's message.

Bruno Schulz

Some months ago I was looking at books in Borders when I stumbled across The Street of Crocodiles by Bruno Schulz.  Like most people whose literary focus has been vaguely European but specifically British, the name did not ring any bells.  However, the name intrigued me, and upon reading the brief biography, I was deterimed to learn more about the book and the man.

For those of you who are wondering: no, Bruno Schulz is no relation to Peanuts author Charles Schulz.  Well, by no way I've found, and if they were, it would certainly be very distantly.  (Maybe not as distantly as my possible relation to Thomas Mann, but we're talking about a good sized separation.)  Schulz is a very common German family name, though Bruno Schulz was not a German.  He was a Polish Jew.

He was born in 1892 in the then small Austro-Hungarian town of Drohobrycz, the son of a cloth merchant.  He was raised there and spent most of his life there.  Apparently he really liked it, and judging from the pictures I've seen of modern day Drohobych (it's modern name), it's easy to see why someone would want to stay there.  Still, he did travel somewhat, like when he studied architecture at Lviv University and briefly in Vienna.  Without traveling at all from Drohobrycz though, his nationality changed four times, as the city changed hands that many times in his lifetime.  Countries must've loved them some Drohobrycz.
Like I mentioned, he was a Jew and was very interested in Jewish culture, though he didn't know Yiddish.  He spoke Polish and German, and helped his fiancée Józefina Szelińska translate Kafka's The Trial into Polish.   He wrote in Polish, and was awarded Poland's Golden Laurel award by the Polish Academy of Literature in 1938.

From 1924 to 1941 he was an art teacher in Drohobrycz, though he apparently didn't enjoy it and only kept the job for monetary reasons.  He apparently kept to himself; he was perceived as a hermit.  Most of his life was uneventful--you know, except for all that writing of the best Polish literature of the 20th century.
His life was uneventful, I should say, until 1939.  For those who aren't familiar with history (or not good with dates) it was at this time that World War II began.  You know that one.  It's the one with the Nazis.  Yeah, it's gonna be one of those stories.  At the time, the Soviet Union owned Drohobrycz, but after the Nazi invasion of the Soviet Union, Schulz, like the other Jews in Drobobrycz, was put in a ghetto.  At the time, he was working on a novel supposedly called The Messiah, thought to be his masterpiece.  He gave this and other papers and artwork to some gentile friends for safe keeping.  They have never been seen since.
It's not all bad though.  He's still alive, and not only that, a Gestapo officer named Felix Landau found out about his talents as an artist and put Schulz to work painting murals on his child's playroom.  This of course gave Schulz certain privileges, not the least important being protection.
That is, supposed protection.  On a night in November of 1942, at the corner of Czacki and Mickiewicz streets, Schulz was shot in the head by Karl Günther, a Gestapo officer.  You might be wondering why.  Apparently, like Landau, Günther had himself a "favored Jew," who was killed by Landau.  "You killed my Jew," he said.  "I killed yours."  And so, one of the greatest Polish writers--possibly the greatest--of the 20th century died.
According to the forward to my copy of The Street of Crocodiles, Schulz was planned an escape from the ghetto that very night.  It's impossible to say if he would've succeeded.  We'll never know.  Perhaps, if he had, he would've had to start all over on The Messiah; and perhaps it would've been a masterpiece of literature, changing the art form forever.  Perhaps it would've been terrible.
As for Schulz known work, we have The Street of Crocodiles and Sanatorium Under the Sign of the Hourglass.  They are collections of interconnected short stories, containing some of the most beautiful prose I've ever read.  Of course, large credit goes to the translator Celina Wieniewska for giving us such a wonderful English version.  I highly recommend the Penguin Classics edition pictured above as it contains both books and three other short stories.
I'll end this with one of my favorite passages from The Street of Crocodiles, from the short story "August."  It is a discription of a sunflower, yet it brings to mind Schulz himself for me.
"An enormous sunflower, lifted on a powerful stem and suffering from hypertrophy, clad in the yellow mourning of the last sorrowful days of its life, bent under the weight of its monstrous girth.  But the naive suburban bluebells and unpretentious dimity flowers stood helpless in their starched pink and white shifts, indifferent to the sunflower's tragedy."

Another Another List

16. The Castle of Otranto by Horace Walpole
      First published in 1764, this is one of those books that most people read for historical purposes.  Horace Walpole essentially started, not only the Gothic movement, but the age of the novel. Of course, it is not the first novel, but that does not belittle it's effect.  You can see it stretch all through the Gothic movement it started, but also through literature of the 19th century and into 20th century horror novels.  Granted, reading it now, it's not so scary as it might have been.  The image of a man being crushed to death by a giant helmet is always a shocking one though.
17. A Canticle for Leibowitz by Walter M. Miller, Jr.
      Moving nearly two hundred years in the future, we find A Canticle for Leibowitz, one of the most influential science fiction novels, and easily the most influential post-apocalyptic novels of all time.  The story is devided into three parts: "Fiat Homo," "Fiat Lux," and "Fiat Voluntas Tua."  Each piece, while taking place in the future, in a world changed by nuclear destruction, represents a period in history.  The nuclear holocaust that preceded represents the Fall of Rome; "Fiat Homo," the Dark Ages; "Fiat Lux," the Renaissance, and "Fiat Voluntas Tua," the Modern Age.  Shortly after the "Flame Deluge," came the "Simplification," when "Simpletons" burned every book and piece of writing they could find, for that, they thought, was the cause of the destruction before.  Isaac Liebowitz created an order dedicating to hiding books and preserving knowledge.  The story follows important instances during the life of this Order of Liebowitz and deals heavily with the notion of recurrence.  It is easily the best science fiction novel I've read.
18. Idylls of the King by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
       Tennyson's blank verse retelling of the story of King Arthur and his knights is often seen as an allegory for Victorian society, which is easy to understand; however, they can be just as enjoyable if read simply as stories of the greatest mythic hero in British history.  While the poetry is not always as good as some of Tennyson's other works, it is easy to read and understand, which is essential when telling a story, whether in prose of verse.  Another thing to keep in mind is that Tennyson did not sit down and write all of these one after the other.  They were written over a period of over twenty years, which really only means that each poem can be read separately and understood just as well, so long as some basic knowledge of the Arthurian legend is had beforehand.  My personal favorites are "Gareth and Lynette," "Balin and Balan," "Lancelot and Elaine," and "Pelleas and Ettare."
19. Little Dorrit by Charles Dickens
      Before the miniseries of this novel came out two years ago, it was not common to hear it discussed except by die hard Dickens fans.  It was heaped among the lesser read Dickens novels such as Martin Chuzzlewit, Barnaby Rudge, or Hard Times.  While it may be less read, it is not less fantastic than his other works.  Chesterton described Little Dorrit as the saddest of Dickens novels, which I would have to agree with.  It really is a melancholy novel, which I realize is not uncommon with Dickens; however, Little Dorrit lacks something even the most melancholy Dickens novels have.  Really, the only way to explain it without saying far more than I have room for right now, would be to recommend reading David Copperfield and then Little Dorrit simply to compare the characters.  With these two novels, Dickens shows the reader two sides of the same coin.  What I find most interesting is that I don't think he intended to do it.
20. Caleb Williams by William Godwin
      The other title to this 1794 novel is Things As They Are.  William Godwin, the husband of pre-feminism feminist writer Mary Wollstonecraft and father to Mary Shelley, was writing with a very distinct purpose.  That purpose was to show how things were in England, and if his word is to be trusted, things were not perfect.  Divided into three volumes, the first tells the tale of country gentry Mr. Falkland and his rival.  When his rival turns up dead after publicly insulting Falkland, one can only assume what happened.  Caleb Willaims is a well-educated but poor servant in Falkland's house, and after hearing the story, he grows curious.  A little too curious for Falkland's comfort, and soon, he is accused of thieving and lying.  He throws the accusation back at Falkland and is quickly hated by all of England. One word I've heard quite often to describe this story is "fierce." It's a good term for not only the story, but the concept Godwin was trying to express. Justice is a fierce thing, but no where near as fierce as injustice; and that's truly what this story is driven by: injustice. Mr. Falkland evades justice and Caleb cannot seem to find it. Caleb becomes a criminal, hunted for a crime he did not commit.   It is a intense look at the justice system of England, as Godwin saw it, in the late 1700's.  My only complaint is that Godwin's style is that of a philosopher, not a novelist, and it can some times be distracting.
21. Under the Greenwood Tree by Thomas Hardy*
      Academically speaking, there are two good reasons to read this novel.  Firstly, it displays Hardy's early style and is foreshadows his later works.  Secondly, Hardy shows a wonderful depiction of rural English life through the characters of the Mellstock choir, or quire.  Some consider this last part the strongest part of this work, and I will admit, I find his depiction of country life highly enjoyable, but it is a common element in most of his novels and short stories.  The main reason I read the novel again was for the love story.  Thomas Hardy's novels are always full of tragic love stories, and often times with multiple characters in play.  In Far from the Madding Crowd, for example, Bathsheba Everdone has three men in love with her.  One is murdered by the another one who is clearly insane, and the last one she marries quietly after her pride and spirit are broken. In Under the Greenwood Tree with Fancy Day and her three suitors, things play out much less tragically.  In fact, this novel stands out among Hardy's work for it's relatively happy atmosphere and ending, though it wouldn't be a Hardy novel if there wasn't some cloud on the horizon, right?
22. The Mysterious Stranger by Mark Twain
      For those who are only familiar with Twain's earlier works, The Mysterious Stranger might come as a shock.  It was his last attempted novel, which he tried to write three times.  The copy I read is the heavily edited edition by Albert Bigelow Paine.  It is mainly an edited version of Twain's first draft, The Chronicles of Young Satan, with the ending to the last draft, No. 44, the Mysterious Stranger.  Let's go back to that Young Satan thing.  The tale of is set in 16th century Austria, where three boys meet--you guessed it--a mysterious stranger.  This stranger reveals himself to be an angel named Satan, nephew to the fallen angel of the same name.  Throughout the novel, he teaches them the value of man and human life: nothing.  It is a very dark message.  When Satan explains that all of our choices are determined the very second we're born due to circumstances set in motion the day earth was created, I had to reanalyze my entire philosophy.  I'm an advocate for free will, but there's something to be said for this argument of circumstance.  Our choices are our own, but they are effected by outside sources beyond our control.  Even our thought process is effected by circumstances we did not choose.  But I'll not digress further.
23. The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis*
      This seems like a good follow up to The Mysterious Stranger, but if I remember correctly, I started reading The Monk first, but finished this rather quickly.  I've read this book at least seven times, and by now I should know it backwards and forwards, but it had been nearly five years since I last read it.  There's something wonderful about re-reading a book by an author you've come to read quite thoroughly.  It gives a new appreciation of the work.  While the work is full of spiritual insight and the token Lewis humor, reading it now, shows me different elements of Lewis that I didn't see when I first read it.  On it's own though, the work is obviously a masterpiece, which can be appreciated by Christians and atheists alike, and it has been over the years.  While Lewis' devils are, of course, representative of real devils (he believed in the devil, like any legitimate Christian), the way he displays them is also an attack of bureaucracy, where each person is only ever unselfish for selfish reasons.  It is highly recommended to anyone.
24. The Monk by Matthew G. Lewis
      The Monk is the climax of Gothic literature. That's not to say anything after isn't good or even better than it, but everything after was on the down hill side of the movement.  That's not even to say The Monk  is the best piece of Gothic literature, but it seems to be an amalgamation of everything everyone had done before, with a little bit of a twist.  Matthew Lewis was not opposed to showing the reading the atrocities his book is about.  It's essentially the difference between a horror film and a thriller.  And The Monk is frightening is certain places.  Dull in others, though.  It is the story of lust destroying an otherwise holy man, and as a consequence, destroying many people around him.  Ambrosio's lust is on full display, as well as the objects of his lust.  You won't find your Victorian descriptions of women here.  It is sexual and horrific, like a modern horror film teens go to in the Summer to see breasts and gore.  For that reason, I would say, it lacks heavy intellectual merit, but considering Lewis wrote it in a matter of ten weeks before he was twenty, it's brilliance makes any of the failings seems rather small.
25. Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov
      Having never read any Nabokov, I felt Lolita was a good place to start.  Let me first say, I don't think the book is bad.  Far from it, in fact.  Nabokov's use of prose is spectacular, but it can also be confusing.  Thomas Mann's Death in Venice, however, as I pointed out in an earlier post, tackles the same concept with the efficiency and bleakness one would expect from a German.  Humbert Humbert's account seems unlikely, though possibly, which I think is the point; but he, like many intellectuals, has a tendancy to ramble--a trait Mann's Aschenbach does not share.  The main difference is that while Nabokov's story is convoluted and uniquely phrased, there isn't much underneath the prose beside one pervert's love for a young girl.  Mann's story is told in straightforward manner, but it hides a deeper aspect.  I would recommend reading both, but I would definitely recommend Death in Venice before Lolita.
26. The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
      What is there to say about Sherlock Holmes other than he's f**king Sherlock Holmes.  Seriously though, Holmes is perhaps the biggest badass in all of literature from the last hundred, maybe two hundred years.  That's considering James Bond was created within the last century.  There's been a resurgence of Holmes lately, though he never went out of style, and this is easily my favorite collection of Holmes stories.  It contains my favorites: "The Adventure of the Yellow Face," "The Gloria Scott," "The Naval Treaty," and--of course--"The Final Problem."  The last is the infamous introduction of Professor James Moriarty, and also contains what was meant to be the death of Sherlock Holmes.  This is a wondrous collection of stories, but then again, aren't all the Sherlock Holmes collections?
27. The Way of All Flesh by Samuel Butler
      Samuel Butler is one of those few people who thought they would only fully be appreciated after their death and happened to be right.  His magnum opus, written over a period of about ten years (1873-1884), was not published until 1903, one year after Butler's death.  The Way Of All Flesh was quite popular and is today considered one of the most influential novels of the 20th century.  I must say, there's good cause for all the praise.  It is a harshly written attack on Victorian values, and while I found the style to be unique and enjoyable and the story quite interesting, my major complaint is all of his complaints.  He seems to be shooting with a scatter-gun.  Mr. Overton--the narrator--seems angry about everything.  He would attack one thing and then criticize Ernest's attack against the same thing.  Also, his attacks on Christianity--while understandable considering the strict Calvinism he was dealing with--were lacking in any real merit.  Anyone with a half-thorough knowledge of theology could tear down his arguments, but like I said, I understand why he was attacking it.  Still, I'd recommend reading George MacDonald's--also a Victorian--criticize of Calvinism instead.
28. The Golden Legend: Selections by Jacobus de Voragine
      For those who are not aware of one of the world's first best sellers, The Golden Legend is a collection of the lives of the Saints.  Technically, Voragine did not write it, but merely collected the information from other sources, though he deserves more credit than a simple compiler.  I'll not focus on that, however, and move on to the work itself.  Being raised Baptist, we did very little study of the Saints, aside from the big ones--the Apostles, Mary (Magdalene, not the mother of Christ), early Christian martyrs, et cetera.  So, aside from wanting to read more Medieval literature, I was naturally interested in the lives of the lesser known--or sometimes well known but Catholic--Saints.  I read about most Saints on his or her feast day throughout the year, reading more sometimes and less sometimes, and finished in late November.  The tales in here are at times quite fascinating as well as fantastical.  Some of them read like fairy tales.  Take the Seven Sleepers, for example--a story I've blogged about before.  What is especially interesting is reading the historical account of a saint--say, Thomas Becket--and the Church's version.  I'm sure the truth is somewhere in the middle.  I'm quite eager to get the entire collection, rather than just selections, but I would recommend starting with this.
29. A Room with a View by E.M. Forster
     I already blogged extensively on this novel, so I will say very little here.  If anyone is truly interested in my thoughts upon the book, read my blog from December second.  All I'll say here is that I could easily see myself reading this again, and look forward to reading Where Angels Fear to Tread.
30. The Song of Roland by Anonymous
      Ah, The Song of Roland, first of the chanson de geste--is there really anything I can say about this that could actually express the pure badassery of it?   This is the Medieval equivalent to Die Hard, and might also remind modern readers of the plot to 300.  I'd have to say though, even John McClane and King Leonidas wouldn't stand a chance against Roland and Olivier.  Here's the basic idea: Charlemagne has been invading Spain for a while now, and decides to leave after Saracen king Marsile promises peace.  It's all a trap though, and when Roland, twelve peers--including his best friend Olivier--and twenty thousand soldiers head up the rearguard, they are ambushed by Marsile's army of four hundred thousand.  They fight to the last man--that being Roland, of course.  Roland previously refused to sound his horn to alert Charlemagne, but now does so, bursting his temples from the blow.  He dies on a hill, facing the enemy land.  Charlemagne comes, and long story short, is mortified, but not so much that he can't heap a horrible vengeance on his foes.  Based on historical events, but probably about as reliable a historic document as 300, The Song of Roland is easily the greatest epic poem from the era.  There's a lot more I could say about it, but I'll limit myself.  Maybe I'll talk about it some other time.

Well, that is my finished list of the books I read this year.  Hopefully next year's will be longer, but at least it's not shorter than last year's.

Another List

Well, since December has reared it's cold, white-bearded head, I suppose it's time again to make the list of books I've read this year.  Sadly, just like last year, it's at thirty.  But at least it's not less than last year.  And just like last year, I'm not including Dickens' five Christmas books that I read every year in December.  I'm currently reading a small collection of essays by William Hazlitt, but I doubt I'll get it finished before January, so it's not included.
I've devided the list into two lists of fifteen (just like last year), and, of course, and asterisk next to the name means I've read it before.  Prepare to judge me harshly.


1.  The Princess and Curdie by George MacDonald
     I first read The Princess and the Goblin in 2006.   It was the second novel I read by MacDonald and the first one I enjoyed all the way through.  I checked all the book stores in town for the sequel, but not finding it, I let it slip from my mind.  I wish I hadn't, because the two should really be read back to back.  They compliment each other in the sense that Goblin is the feminine story while Curdie is the masculine.  Of course, the two are ripe with Christian metaphors, though like most of MacDonald's works, they are never preachy.  It is definitely a classic I'll read to my kids one day.  (My future children, not my future baby goats.)
2.  Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte
     I had intended to start the year off with this novel.  This was to be my year of reading novels everyone should read.  I made a dent in that list, at least, and I started with this book.  I've already said how I rank the Brontes in an early post, but I'll say again: Anne is my favorite.  That's not to say Charlotte is a bad writer, but having read two of her novels, I find them somewhat trite.  Jane Eyre specifically, I found to be predictable--I knew little to nothing of the story--and often boring.
3.  In a Glass Darkly by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu
     Le Fanu is a little know Irish author from the Victorian movement who was stuck in the Gothic period.  This is in no way a bad thing.  In a Glass Darkly is a collection of short occult mysteries, taken from the papers of one Dr. Martin Hesselius, an expert in metaphysics and the occult.  He appears very little throughout though, which is due to him being merely a pretense to publish these all together.  They were most of them, if not all, published separately beforehand.  While the five stories were all interesting and entertaining, the best was certainly the novella length vampiric tale Carmilla, the story of a lesbian vampire's obsession with an English girl living in Western Europe. Not your typical Victorian romance.
4.  Vanity Fair by William Makepeace Thackeray
     This is a powerhouse of a story.  Like many novels written in the Victorian era, it spans a large time frame and includes a large cast of characters.  Despite that, it is highly memorable and entertaining.  It's easy to see why it was so influential.  What's not easy to see is why Becky is so beloved.  She was the least likable character in it, but feminists see her as a strong woman.  I've never thought being amoral makes you strong.  But again, I think most people miss the point in the same way Blake missed the point about Milton's Satan.
5.  Gulliver’s Travels by Jonathan Swift
     For those who don't know Jonathan Swift's famous story, it is the tale of a traveler who apparently has the worst luck when he finds open water, and finds himself four times stranded on islands with strange inhabitants who just so happen to lampoon and attack the flaws and foibles of the day.  Of course, this is why Swift is considered by many to be England's greatest satirist.  I would go so far as to estimate that this fictional travelogue is one of--if not the most influential book of the last three hundred years.  It's effected not only literature and film, but also the English language.  Not to the extent of Shakespeare, but certainly you've never met someone who didn't know the word "yahoo."
6.  The Eyre Affair by Jasper Fforde
     Like many people who read a lot of classic literature, this was recommended to me because I'd like the subject matter and the references.  Sadly, it takes more than a mention of Martin Chuzzlewit to get me to like a book.  Do I doubt Fforde really enjoys classic literature?  No.  But this book is trying way to hard to not only make that point abundantly clear, which, by the way, it does not do; but it is also trying way to hard to be eccentric.  Oh, it's kinda cute that Thursday Next has a Dodo named Pickwick, but that doesn't fix the weak points in his plot or dialogue.  I'll probably still read the second one in the series though, since I own it.
7.  David Copperfield by Charles Dickens*
     David Copperfield is my favorite novel.  It's not Dickens' best work.  No, that title would go to Bleak House most likely.  But David Copperfield has sentimental value.  It also helps that some of Dickens' best characters are displayed in this novel.  The wonderfully positive Thomas Traddles, the clearly bipolar and perpetually impoverished Wilkins Micawber, the simple yet lovable Dora Spenlow, the conniving and dastardly Uriah Heep, and the stiff but gentle Betsy Trotwood--and the cast goes on.  Dickens displays his knack for making eccentric characters better in David Copperfield than in any other work.  And it's this knack for the eccentric that I've always loved about Dickens, ever since I first read A Christmas Carol.
8.  The Last Unicorn by Peter S. Beagle
     The thing about Beagle is, he looks like a fantasy author.  More than that, he looks like a fantasy reader.  In some ways, this is a good thing.  One can tell from reading The Last Unicorn that Beagle knows his fantasy, especially high fantasy.  The problem is though, The Last Unicorn is high fantasy in a low fantasy body.  (For those who don't know the difference, click on the links.)  Granted, I think I was looking for something a little bit more William Morris, and what I got was more Diana Wynne Jones.  I like both authors, but I felt this book could've been something so much more than it was.  As it is, I found it somewhat forgettable and boring in many places.
9.  Slaughterhouse-Five by Kurt Vonnegut
     I like Vonnegut, but I think I like him in smaller doses than a whole novel.  I've read many of his short stories and never been let down.  Slaughterhouse-Five was, sadly, not as good as I'd expected it to be.  It wasn't science fiction, for one.  That's a mislabel.  I think we all know Billy Pilgrim didn't go into space.  He suffered quite a bit as a prisoner of war, and eventually, he snapped.  That wasn't my issue.  I just got nothing out of the book.  Most of the Vonnegut stories I've read I highly enjoyed and they stuck in my mind long afterwords.  This, once I got to the last page, was out of my head immediately.  Maybe I'll read Cat's Cradle next time.
10. The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald
      By the time an American reaches the age of twenty-five, if he hasn't read The Great Gatsby, most people assume there's something wrong with him.  It might surprise some, but my school never required me to read it.  I'm not too fond of American literature in general, so I put it off.  I'm glad I did.  I'd already read Fitzgerald's Tales of the Jazz Age by the time I got to this, which added to what I got out of it.  I will say though, I felt it was a bit over-lauded.  It was good, but there were many British writers from the same period attacking the same social ills and doing it better.  I look forward to reading more by Fitzgerald though. 
11. It’s Too Late to Say I’m Sorry by Joey Comeau
      I've already expressed my enjoyment of the works of this crazy bastard once before, so it should come as no surprise that I read this collection of short stories in a few hours.  Comeau lends himself to easy reading though.  He's never too deep, but never too shallow.  He tows the line.  I read his darkly hilarious epistolary novel Overqualified last year and I've been reading his webcomic A Softer World even longer, so I knew what to expect from this collection: horror, romance, and a little bit of philosophical musings.  Throw in a little bit (or a lot) of perverted humor and you've got Joey Comeau.
12. The Mill On the Floss by George Eliot
      This is probably not what one would expect someone to read after Joey Comeau, but somehow it happened that way.  I was in the mood for some Victorian idyllic stylings, something like Thomas Hardy.  And who's more like Thomas Hardy than George Eliot?  (I suppose I could've just read Thomas Hardy, but here we are.)  Let me just say, I enjoyed this novel, but it was so slow.  It was like walking up a steep hill the entire time, and then, out of no where, falling into a crevice.  It just ended, and I did not see that ending coming.  After thinking about it, it makes sense, but at the time I was highly confused why she'd end it like that, so suddenly.  I know many people studying Victorian literature usually read Middlemarch, but I'd highly recommend this instead.  It is a biting, but also sympathetic, attack on many aspects of Victorian country life.
13. The Death of Ivan Ilyich by Leo Tolstoy
      I remember that while reading this, I enjoyed it, but I remember very little from it.  I mean, I understand what it was actually about, what the intellectuals say it's about.  Maybe if I were someone who never thought of death and the afterlife it would've struck home more.  It's a very well done novella, but I can list on one hand all the novellas that have changed my life.  There's nothing wrong with it, and I'm glad I read it.  I'd even recommend it to anyone interested in the subject, the author, or Russian literature.  I suppose though, there's rarely a reason to not remind one's self of life's temporariness and the need to live right.
14. Northanger Abbey by Jane Austen*
      I first read this in 2007 because a girl I liked told me to read Austen.  I'm glad I did because Austen is a necessity.  I read it at a ridiculous singles conference my church went to. I don't think they meant for me to spend the conference in a stairwell reading alone, but there you have it.  I feel like that's where Cathrine Morland would've been.  Northanger Abbey  is Austen's Don Quixote.  In fact, the earlier novel The Female Quixote by Charlotte Lennox was used as a model for Norrthanger Abbey.   But anyway, Miss Morland is perhaps my favorite Austen heroine.  She is, I believe, the most eccentric, which to a certain extent means the most sincere.  Naivety is a good sign of sincerity.  And rather than feel sorry for her when she makes her outrageous mistakes, I feel nothing but comradely.
15. Death in Venice by Thomas Mann
      While this is barely more a short story, I've added it here because it's classified as a novella.  If you ask the average reader, they'll tell you Death in Venice  is paled by Lolita, but in my opinion, this is the superior work.  His use of the Apollonian life struggling against the Dionysian life, resulting in the end with a failure and Aschenbach falling victim to Dionysus, seems to me far more interesting than the concept tackled in Lolita.  In fact, I'd say, without Nabokov's unique use of prose, Lolita would be nothing special.  Of course, I only see this now after reading Lolita and comparing the two.  But I'll get to my views on Lolita in the next and final list.

Extended Reading List

I've found myself in a predicament, as of late.  I have two lists of books I want to read.  The first one is the list I posted earlier; the second is a list of Medieval and classical works as well as works expounding upon the former period.  One could say the first list is my casual reading list, though to a casual reader--by most definitions--it would look rather academic.  The second would clearly appear entirely academic, though it's becoming a bit of an obsession of mine.  I have before me an untouched wealth of knowledge, which, in the words of Seneca the Younger, "were born for us and prepared for us a way of life."
I have been gathering up Medieval texts over the passed few months--over the passed year, actually.  Of these, I've only read selections from The Golden Legend.  I intend for this to change in the coming year.  Of the books I intend to read next year, here is a list.  By making a list, I can use it as a reference, as well as make it more definitive.

Books about the Medieval Period include:

The Discarded Image: An Introduction to Medieval and Renaissance Literature by C.S. Lewis
Medieval Lives by Terry Jones, with Alan Ereira (The documentary was fantastic.)
Monarchy by David Starkey (Again, the documentary was fantastic.)

Actual Medieval (and going back to the Classical period and into the Renaissance) texts:

The Illiad and The Odyssey by Homer
Ethics by Aristotle
The Mabinogion
The Consolation of Philosophy by Boethius
Confessions by Saint Augustine
City of God by Saint Augustine
Piers the Plowman
Ecclesiastical History of the English People by Bede
Alfred the Great by John Asser 
The History of the Kings of Britain by Geoffrey of Monmouth
The Decameron by Giovanni Boccaccio
The Canterbury Tales by Geoffrey Chaucer
The Inner Life by Thomas a Kempis
Le Morte d'Arthur by Sir Thomas Malory (more thoroughly)
Utopia by Thomas Moore (again)
Gargantua and Pantagruel by Francois Rabelais

I'll be honest.  I don't think I can read all of those in one year, but I'm ambitious.  That's not including the books in my Amazon wishlist, like William of Newburgh's History of English Affairs or Lewis' Studies in Medieval and Renaissance Literature.  I also want to find more books about Medieval literature and life.  That and hopefully I'll be able to find a cheap copy of some of Roger Bacon's works.  It may take some time, considering the other reading list I have, but I've become increasingly passionate about these studies.  I think the Medieval mindset contained something that we've lost in the last few hundred years that was beneficial, but for some reason we've been damning Medieval man as if he were lower than us.  It's chronological snobbery, as Lewis put it.

George Meredith

George Meredith was the progeny of navel outfitters in Portsmouth.  His mother died when he was five, and his father went into bankruptcy when he was ten.  He was schooled in Neuwied, German, which he went to at the age of fourteen.  He returned to England at the age of sixteen and was then apprenticed to a London lawyer.  It was not to his taste, and he soon left the law for journalism.  He began to write poetry at this time.  In 1849 he married the widow Mary Nicolls, daughter of satirical novelist Thomas Love Peacock.  Mary was nine years his senior.  The marriage ended badly when, in 1858, Mary abandoned her husband and five-year-old son.  This incident would provide Meredith with the inspiration to write his third novel The Ordeal of Richard Feverel, which was his first important novel.  It also served as inspiration for his book of poetry Modern Love.  He wrote nineteen novels, the best known being Rhoda Fleming, The Adventures of Harry Richmond, The Egoist, and Diana of the Crossways.  In his later life, he received many honors.  He became President of the Society of British Authors, a position formally held by Alfred Tennyson, and in 1905 was made a member of the Order of Merit by Edward VII.  He died in 1909 at his home at Box Hill, Dorking.
His income as an author being uncertain, he added to it by being a publisher's reader.  He became highly influential due to the important publishing house of Chapman and Hall.  He became friends with many members of the literary world, including Algernon Charles Swinburne, Leslie Stephen, William and Dante Gabriel Rossetti, Robert Louis Stevenson, George Gissing, and J.M. Barrie.  He was honored by contemporary writer Sir Arthur Conan Doyle in the Holmes story The Boscombe Valley Mystery, when Holmes says to Watson, "And now let us talk about George Meredith, if you please, and leave all minor matters until to-morrow."  Oscar Wilde said of him, "Ah, Meredith!  Who can define him?  His style is chaos illuminated by flashes of lightning."

Reading list

I don't usually make a reading list, but for once in my life, I have a clear cut idea of what books I want to read.  I'm currently reading Caleb Williams by William Godwin.  This is my list of books to read after that. There will be some free space in between some of them which can be taken up by randomly selected books, but I will adhere to this basic list.


Under the Greenwood Tree by Thomas Hardy
The Monk by Matthew Lewis
Lolita by Vladamir Nobokav
The four Christmas books of Charles Dickens (as I do every December)
Pendennis by William Makepeace Thackeray
The History of Henry Esmond by William Makepeace Thackeray
New Grub Street by George Gissing
The Life and Opinions of Tristam Shandy by Lawrence Sterne
The Way We Live Now by Anthony Trollope

These are books I've felt some sort of need to read more than others.  Some, like Tristam Shandy, I've been  wanting to read for a long while now.  It's not a long list, I'll admit, but what's most important is that they're books I want to read for no more reason than that I think I will enjoy them.

Medieval Folklore

The more I learn about Medieval folklore the more I realize how little I know about it. When I was younger, I thought I was something because I knew who Thomas the Rhymer or Geoffrey of Monmouth was, but it wasn't until last year I learned anything about Bede and only until last night I'd read anything about the Seven Sleepers. For shame!
I suppose I ought to explain from where this complaint is originating. I began reading this morning about revenants, which, of course, led me to the works of William of Newburgh. Therein I found the tale of the Green Children of Woolpit, which led somehow--I don't rightly recall--to the Seven Sleepers. I now have a list of about five Medieval texts that I want to buy, which will amass a total of over a hundred dollars. Why are Medieval books so expensive?
Anyway, I decided to post some of the interesting stories I read today.
The first being the story of the Green Children of Woolpit. Apparently, sometime in the 12th century, two children appeared in the English town of Woolpit, Suffolk. These children were just like most children of the period, except for the small differences that they spoke an unknown language and their skin was green. Along with that, they only ate green beans. The boy died not too long after his arrival, but the girl was taught to eat other things. Her skin soon turned to the normal color and she was taught English--such as it was at the time. She was baptized and became the servant of a local knight. Her conduct was always considered rather wanton though, which tends to bring to mind the fairy folk. Speaking of the good people, while in the service of the knight, she told him that she and the boy had come from an underground land known as Saint Martin's Land, a place where everyone's skin is green. Interesting points are these: green beans are considered the food of the dead--I have yet to figure out why. Anyone with answers on that point is free to enlighten me. Second one: there is a sickness known in the older times as the green sickness. Now it is known to be an anemia that causes the patient's skin to turn green. I won't go into the explanations some people have given as I am the type to find the stories more interesting than the explanations. Moving right along.
The second story I found fascinating was the story of the martyrs known as the Seven Sleepers. Perhaps a Catholic would find this story old hat, but being raised a Baptist, I was not taught many stories of the Saints, which I see as a true shame. Regardless, the story is as follows--being in it's bare bones as in the form of the most common iteration: seven men during the reign of Emperor Decius, around 250 AD, were found to be Christians. This was, of course, when Christianity was persecuted. Decius, being the swell fellow that he was, gave all seven time to recant their error and return to paganism. When he saw that they gave their possessions to the poor and retired to a mountain cave to pray, he sealed the cave shut as punishment. Decius died in 251 and the seven men were forgotten, as martyrs were common at the time. It was not until the reign of Emperor Theodosius II--it lasted from 408 to 450, so sometime in that range--that the seven men were rediscovered. A landowner decided to open the cave, which was sealed for some reason unknown to him. Within the cave, he found seven men, all alive, sound asleep. They awoke, thinking they had only slept one day. One of the seven went down to Ephesus, the city from which they came, I believe, and was astounded to find crosses decorating the buildings, while the inhabitants were astounded to see him paying with money from two hundred years ago. The bishop of the town interviewed the men and they told him all their miraculous tale. The story is highly influential to many Medieval tales as well as many modern tales. One can clearly see similarities in Washington Irving's Rip Van Winkle and H.G. Wells' When the Sleeper Awakes and even Transformers--anyone familiar with the Last Autobot story from the comic books? Many people argue that it gave birth to the "king in the mountain" motif, though it could only be another instance of it. It also reminds me of the the story of King Herla, though that would've definitely taken influence from this story.
For those who are wondering, the king in the mountain motif is used in stories where a warrior, king, religious figure are found or said to be sleeping in some out of the way place--usually a cave in a mountain--until they are needed. Often times, the sign of their appearing is when all the birds, or only certain ones such as ravens, go extinct. Examples of these tales are King Arthur and Merlin from British folklore, Thomas the Rhymer from Scottish, Bran the Blessed from Welsh, and even William Tell from Swiss legend.

Let's Make a List, Part II

While I try to kill time--Interesting saying, by the way. My theory is that we invented it out of shear irony. I say, while I try to kill time, I decided I'd finish what I started it. I don't really check this thing that often and I hardly consider it a worthwhile endeavor, but once one makes a part one, it is customary to make at least a part two, unless of course your name is Mel Brooks.
So, here is the second part of my list of books I've read this year. I left off with Joey Comeau's darkly funny epistolary Overqualified, which was fifteen on the list. As common sense and your elementary education has taught you, we shall begin again at sixteen.

16. The Inferno by Dante Alighieri. This book changed the way people view Hell. Rather than picturing it as a lake of fire or a bottomless pit, lacking all light, as the Bible describes it, most people picture the nine levels, filled with a variety of punishments. The poem is filled with quite a few vivid areas and memorable moments, but I think my favorite part of the poem is The Wood of the Suicides. The imagery really stayed with me. As a side note, I played the demo for Dante's Inferno, and all I'll say is, I love God of War. Well, that and it's obviously a loose translation.
17. The Life and Adventures of Martin Chuzzlewit by Charles Dickens. Dickens wrote 14 finished novels, one unfinished novel, four Christmas novellas, two travel logs, two collections of literary sketches, and a child's history book. This book kind of gets lost in the shuffle--and what a shuffle it is! Martin isn't as likable as Nicholas Nickleby, even after he lets go of his selfishness. Mark Tapley, though wonderful, isn't nearly as wonderful as Thomas Traddles. The truly brilliant characters in this one are the villains. Jonas Chuzzlewit is perhaps the most sinister Dickensian villain, while Seth Pecksniff--well, there's never been a better portrayal of hypocrisy. To be honest, Chuzzlewit is ripe with Dickensian wit, charm, and characters more akin to Greek heroes and gods than men, however, there a better examples of his brilliance.
18. Life's Little Ironies by Thomas Hardy. This is a collection of eight short stories, some being the best Hardy has written, in my opinion. As the name would indicate, the stories are ironic tales, to at least, some extent. Some of them are heartbreaking, some haunting, but all are entertaining. My favorites were "An Imaginative Woman" and "To Please His Wife."
19. Franny and Zooey by J.D. Salinger. I bought this at a resale shop because I had already read the first twenty pages while waiting for my mother. I didn’t like Salinger before I read this and now I like him, if not less, at least the same. There were strokes of—not quite—genius, but they were few and far between. He is filled with juvenile pretensions, and what's more, he knows it. He fills his characters with it, and we're supposed to care about them despite of it. I've never read Catcher in the Rye (because I'm not in junior high), but I've heard it's the same, with more cursing.
20. Castle in the Air by Diana Wynne Jones. Remember the Jones kick I was on at the beginning of the year that was mentioned in the first list? It almost came back. I was all set to go out and buy House of Many Ways, which is the last in the Howl series, but I restrained myself. Jones style is flawed at times. She falls short of her predecessors, but she soars above most of her contemporaries, so I forgive her of it. Castle wasn't as good as Howl, and the reoccurring characters seemed different somehow. Still, it was an enjoyable fantasy novel.
21. The Vicar of Wakefield by Oliver Goldsmith. Goldsmith, with this one--his only--novel, influenced most of the authors to immediately follow him. Jane Austin clearly took cues from the book. I can see it in all of her works. The Brontë's were sure to have read the novel. Dickens takes scenes strait out of it--Pickwick in debtor's prison is oddly similar to Primrose's time in jail. There is usually a good reason why a piece of art is so influential, though for the life of me, I cannot put my finger to it on this one. I have definitely taken something from it since I read it though.
22. Kenilworth by Sir Walter Scott. I once read that unless you read Scott as a boy, you'll never enjoy him as an adult. I'm not sure if I can be testament to the fallacy of that statement, though the first thing I read by Scott was Ivanhoe, last year. I think the truth of the statement is that to enjoy Scott one must be child-like, which, in my romantic attitude, I am. Kenilworth tells the story of the death of Amy Robsart, the wife of Robert Dudley, 1st Earl of Leicester. Historicity aside, the novel is filled with perhaps the most vivid depictions of some historical figures, such as Elizabeth I and Sir Walter Raleigh, which have been the precedent for how they're treated in future works. Even Leicester is viewed in a sympathetic light. It is a historical tragedy, as most people who read it at the time it was published knew how Amy Robsart died, yet Scott draws it out, keeping hopes up, only to be dashed. I new Robsart had to die, but I still held out hope for Tressilian, her blighted lover. As with most Scott novels, he weaved historical fact with legend and pure fancy. Just remember, he's writing a novel, not a history book.
23. Bartleby, The Scrivener by Herman Melville*. Aside from a failed attempt to read Moby Dick when I was much younger, this was my introduction of Herman Melville. I read it in a literature class some years ago, and I had every intention of skimming the first and last bit, but Bartleby would have none of that. Bartleby is at once heartrending and fascinating: the story of a broken man who simply wants to be left alone. His famous phrase "I would prefer not to" at first seemed Dickensian in his aloofness, but as his character was fleshed out--to the small amount it was--I realized the heavy load he worked under, which led to him preferring to do nothing.
24. The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde by Robert Louis Stevenson. It might sound odd, but once I learned Stevenson was Scottish and not American, I had a stronger pull towards his work and person. His life is truly a fascinating tale, but for now I'll focus on this story. Written over a period of some six days while suffering from illness, as he commonly was. It's alleged that he had the assistance of cocaine to maintain alertness. Sadly, the story of the author is far more interesting than the story itself. Perhaps if I hadn't known the story already, it would have been more intriguing. Damn it's popularity! It is a quick read, but a fairly unexciting one. It's not a bad story or poorly written, just unexciting. I hate to criticize a piece of art based on my expectations, but there you are.
25. Bleak House by Charles Dickens. This is considered Dickens' masterpiece. While I prefer David Copperfield, I can see why persons would consider it such. It is perhaps his most flawless work. He seems, by this point in his works, to have become more focused. He not only begins centered on one goal, it remains that way. Early Dickens novels ramble, using the plot as an excuse to write adventures for his characters; but in this work, his aim is shifted. He uses his characters and adventures for the plot this time. The only later novels I've read other than this are Hard Times, Great Expectations, and A Tale of Two Cities. One can see the same focus in those works as well. This one is still full of brilliant characters, though the most memorable seem to be the bad versions of other Dickensian characters. Harold Skimpole seems like the rascal version of Wilkins Micawber, while Mr. Guppy seems the less noble form of Mr. Toots. (I was a little perturbed at Dickens for his portrayal of Guppy after Esther's illness.) Still, they're equally as charming.
26. Silas Marner by George Eliot*. I know this book is stereotypically read in high school, but not in my school. I read it two years ago and while it only took a few days to read, it stuck with me for a long time. It's one of my favorite books. Marner is a blighted man who leaves behind everything he knows and moves to a small country village. There, as an outsider, he's considered slightly off. He becomes a miser, hoarding gold as his only solace. After he is robbed, the town gives his sympathy and a bit more acceptance. Then, on a New Year's Eve night, a little girl is found sleeping in front of his fire. Her mother died upon the road, and Marner adopts her. That's not the end, but it's a good introduction. It brings up questions of religion, fatherhood, morality, and providence. To be honest, I think high schoolers would miss most of the deeper parts of the work.
27. The House of Doctor Dee by Peter Ackroyd. I thought I could find anything fascinating if it were about John Dee: the famed occultist, mathematician, navigator, astrologer, alchemist, and adviser to Queen Elizabeth I. I was wrong. There's a lot that's good about this book. Those things pale in comparison to the flaws it carries. Told in duel narration--one narrator being Dee himself--it is the story of a man who inherits a house from his father and finds himself connected to it's history. The first two or three chapters are quite good, but it begins to grow wearisome. I cannot help but think Ackroyd began to hate it himself, as the ending feels rushed, as if he just wanted to get it over with. I've heard this is not a good example of Ackroyd's works, but I'd rather not take that chance--not now.
28. Around the World in Eighty Days by Jules Verne. This was my introduction to Verne. Of course, I know the basic story of many of his other works, but I've only ever read this. (Interesting factoid: there's no balloon in this novel.) To be honest, the novel feels like a travelogue. Granted, it's a quick one, and quite an eccentric basis for one, but that was my impression. I was rather intrigued throughout, nonetheless. Passepartout, the real protagonist, was lovable enough, and Fogg was noble enough; but I feel like, in better hands, it could've been an epic romp across the globe rather than a quick run through.
29. Agnes Grey by Anne Brontë. Anne is easily my favorite of the Brontë sisters. Granted, all I've read by her is this delightful novel about the troubles of a governess, but I am greatly excited about reading The Tenant of Wildfell Hall. While Charlotte is fine (I've only read Villette), I prefer Anne's attitude. Also, she seems to be the only one in her family who doesn't think a mean, old man is a perfect candidate for a love interest.
30. The Road by Cormac McCarthy. The Road has been praised as one of the most important books in recent history. I don't know if it's that important, but if there is any piece of literature released recently that I view worth being added to the canon of classical pieces, it would have to be this book. Post-apocalyptica is usually religious or preachy in some way, but this speaks nothing of how the end happened or why, only that it did and of the few who try to make their way through the remains of the world.

So that's the list. Of course, asterisks indicate that I've read it before, just like in the last list. Of course, I left out Dickens' Christmas novellas that I read every December and the numerous Sherlock Holmes stories I read randomly throughout the year. I plan on reading Jane Eyre in January, and then The Eyre Affair, but that's for a different time.