Most of you reading this blog can agree we all read books like they’re the oxygen we need to breathe. We devour each book rabidly and hardly pause between books. The fever is so strong to be without for more than a day is torturous (MUST. KEEP. UP. WITH. TBR.). To put it simply, we’re addicts.
But at the end of every month when I have read a pile of books that makes me proud, I always feel a little pang of guilt when I glance at my shelf full of classics.
I feel like such a good little human for reading (and reading a lot), but then I talk to my parents, my husband’s parents, etc. and they’re all, Austen this and Dickens that and how great Middlemarch is, and I slowly feel myself melting into a little puddle of inadequacy.
So to remedy this inadequacy (because I REFUSE TO FEEL INADEQUATE!), I have been making a point to reading 1-2 classics a month.
But here’s my secret: *whispers really quietly so you can barely hear and have to ask me to repeat myself a couple of times* I just don’t like them that much.
*Starts talking loudly and confidently again because I feels the need to defend myself against the rising tide of judgment I expect but probably am not getting*
Though there are some that I absolutely love: Dracula, Jane Eyre, Pride and Prejudice, A Little Princess to name a few.
*Puffs chest out for being able to throw an Austen on the list*
Are you judging me yet? Do you make a point to read Classics? Do you absolutely love them like a good human? Or perhaps your education was better than mine and you’ve already read a ton (I’m. jealous.)? Or are you impervious to the pressure to make sure you’ve read them? Tell me all your deepest secrets! *puts fingers together and muah-ha-has a bit*