For the first post of the new year the topic is rather distasteful. I will explain that later.
For the past year or so I have been steadily increasing the size of my collection of classics. For a person who loves to read as much as I do I found my lack disturbing. :D A great aid to increasing my collection has been Barnes and Nobles Classics collection.
Unbeknownst to me B&N has recently published an "Essential Writers" series which contain the entire collective writing of authors such as H. G. Wells, Dickens, Austen and many others. This past Christmas my father purchased four such books for me.
This morning I picked up the "smallest" of the four and determined to read it. Four hours later I have accomplished my purpose and my brain is reeling.
I am obviously familiar with Wells' Time Traveler, War of the Worlds and to a brief extent, The Invisible Man. The other stories were new to me and all filled with an oppressive depressing air.
Strains of degressive evolution, man's stupidity, and hopelessness fill the pages. When I read nine hundred of these pages I come away feeling both a little depressed but at the same time extremely thankful for the hope that I have in God. What kind of life led Wells to brood like this and come to the conclusion that the human race was doomed?
I imagine that his life must have been depressing. Perhaps he was spurned by a woman or some other tragic event. I don't know although I could easily look up the information on google or wikipedia. Finding out what a person's life is like through that manner doesn't feel nearly as intriguing or rewarding.
Reading Wells makes me wonder just how much of oneself an author imparts to a novel. Can a truly depressed and hopeless person ever write something to make another smile? Can a person filled with the Spirit of God and a joy that cannot be quenched ever write something that would send another into a depressive spiral?
I really don't know where I'm going with these musings. I suppose that this is an outlet for my brain after being cooped up in the heavy air of Wells' Britain.
Today I am not going to attempt to read any of the other three--Dickens, Twain or London--but instead express my own thoughts for a little while and read slightly lighter fare.
Perhaps as I read the others I will muse on what made that man tick. Why is it that all of the seemingly "great" authors write such heavy fare?
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I have to admit that my experience with the classics is pretty average. (I'm reminded of something I heard once to the effect of "classics are books everyone likes to talk about but no one reads.") I think, though, if a story has no redeeming qualities in the midst of a pervasive depressive atmosphere, that it's hardly edifying. I've read some contemporary literature that's somber in tone and even downright hopeless at times, but comes back around to impart some measure of hope or strength by the end. I like those stories the best, actually - where there is adversity and difficulty, but there are also characters who can transcend the circumstances and make a difference. (And these are not necessarily Christian authors, but all truth is God's truth.)
I would posit that the reason we embrace the heavier fare as "great" or "classic" is because it addresses issues that we, as imperfect human beings, don't want to address. We spend a lot of time wrapped up in frivolous pursuits in an effort to escape those questions of God and life and meaning, so when authors dare to tackle those subjects, we have to notice, if only because they make us uncomfortable with our complacency. Now, it's entirely possible that a "classic" novel addresses the questions and comes to the wrong conclusions, but someone out there is going to decide that they agree and it'll get lodged in the collective of "great books." That's my theory, at least!
Lighter fare sounds like a good idea, especially considering that Dickens is on your list. Talk about heavy!
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