“The first ray of light which illuminates the gloom, and converts into a dazzling brilliancy that obscurity in which the earlier history of the public career of the immortal Pickwick would appear to be involved, is derived from the perusal of the following entry in the Transactions of the Pickwick Club, which the editor of these papers feels the highest pleasure in laying before his readers, as a proof of the careful attention, indefatigable assiduity, and nice discrimination, with which his search among the multifarious documents confided to him has been conducted”
Thus starts ‘The Pickwick Papers’ by Charles Dickens. I have read that sentence (yes, it is only one sentence) at least ten times now and I am still not sure what Mr Dickens is trying to say here. Some parts of it are clear, but the parts somehow do not add up to a coherent message coming through. As far as I can guess (as that is the only option left), he is trying to commend himself on a job well done even though that would primarily fall under the job description of his readers. Blowing your own trumpet? By none other than Charles Dickens! Maybe it is not such a bad quality after all.
However, that is not the subject of this post. The subject is my constant struggle with classic literature, and why I continue to even keep trying. I am an avid reader of fiction, particularly the thriller genre. But ever-so-often, after a couple of totally predictable but nonetheless enjoyable Robert Ludlums or Steve Berrys, I feel guilty. Like I am doing a grave injustice to myself and the world of books by reading these seemingly inconsequential pieces of junk only for entertainment and not using books for the principle reasons that they are meant for – to gain knowledge and an appreciation of the written word. Which is why every time I go book shopping, I always end up with a few fiction books and at least one classic literature which suffer to same fate as the latest one by Mr Dickens (Of course, I stopped reading after the encounter with the first sentence).
And this is not new. I remember having spent a full two months getting through ‘The Fountainhead’ by Ayn Rand. That effort was so monumental that it got a full post dedicated to it in this blog when it was finally completed. And another classic by the same celebrated author, namely, ‘A Tale Of Two Cities’ is now immortal in my memory as ‘the book’ to read when you want to fall asleep fast. Recommended to anyone with insomnia!
And lying unread in a shelf in my room are ‘Great Expectations’ by Dickens again and Homer’s ‘The Iliad’ for appreciation of the written word and ‘Vivekanand and his teachings on the spiritual unity of humankind’ for gaining knowledge. But before that I must complete ‘The Paris Option’ by Robert Ludlum, ‘Stone Cold’ by Steve Baldacci, ‘The Cobra’ by Frederick Forsyth and Sidney Sheldon’s ‘After The Darkness’. The race is on; albeit an unfair one, as the winner has been decided even before it can start. As for those books, they will find better use in my house as pieces of décor that people can see and appreciate and leave it at that. Reading and appreciating just does not seem to be my cup of tea!
