Books Classic Literature Novels & Stories

“Want a glass of wine?” “Sure.” “Red or white?” “Whichever you prefer.” I opened a bottle of merlot, poured us each a glass, and came to join Benji where he stood in the living room, scanning the bookcases between the two big bay windows on the outer wall. There were a lot of old classics—Hemingway, Shakespeare, Poe, Dickens, Twain, Wilde. Handing him his glass, he lifted it to his lips to take a sip. “See something you like?” I asked, nodding at the bookcase.

His eyes never left my face, and I just couldn't bring myself to stare back at him. I was about to leave when I spotted the book he was reading from the corner of my eyes. He had closed the book when I walked in, so I saw the cover and title, "To Kill a Mockingbird" by Harper Lee. I looked up at him in astonishment, "I didn't think you would be interested in classic literature."

Wow. I was drooling. It wasn't just a room with books. It was a sanctuary. Floor-to-ceiling shelves packed with hardcovers, a rolling ladder, a massive fireplace that looked like it hadn't been used in decades. The scent of old paper and leather hit me, comforting and familiar. I ran my finger along the spines. ‘The Art of War’, ‘Sun Tzu’. ‘Histories of the Roman Empire’. Biographies of kings and conquerors. Heavy stuff. Interspersed with them were fiction classics. Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Dumas.

"Well, sometimes I watch T.V. I like, well, love to read. So I do that a lot when I'm alone." "Like what? Romance, crime thrillers?" I shrugged. "Sometimes. I really like the classics. Jane Austen, the Bronte sisters, George Elliot (who was a woman, by the way). I also like the Russians, like Tolstoy and Dostoevsky. 'War and Peace' is amazing." "You've read 'War and Peace'?" "Yeah, twice. It's excellent." I cocked my head. "How about you, what do you like to read?"

He returned his attention to the bookshelf at the rear of his office, the one he’d been browsing when he’d first heard the strange sounds outside, only being made by the cats, after all. The top shelf held purely “literary works.” Poetry collections of Blake, Yeats, Robert Frost, and Shakespeare. Prose collections of Zora Neal Hurston, Hemingway, Nathaniel Hawthorne, Flannery O’Connor, and folktales collected by the Brothers Grimm. Novels, from The Man in the Iron Mask to Madame Bovary, to Villette and Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte, to A Passage to India by E. M. Forster.

"W-What kind of books?" "What kind I like to read?", he asked with an amused tone, trying his hardest not to laugh. "I'm a classics kinda guy. I'm surrounded by so much technology I need a break and avoid futuristic books. My favourites are the Trial by Franz Kafka, 1984 by George Orwell, Don Quijote by Miguel de Cervantes. I should stop here or else I'll talk day and night about my favourite titles. I love any classical literature I pick up." Michael leaned forward. "Weren't it to the high expectations my parents left behind, I would have studied literature."

We have a nice selection of them, actually. Along with the journals are some musty cloth-bound editions of classic literary texts. You know the kind. Books which appear antique and valuable but aren’t. Here’s a damp, musty-smelling copy of Benito Cereno, next to a collection of Shakespeare’s plays. Also, several classic editions of Hemingway’s novels. Now here’s something interesting. A diary. Upon opening it, a name scrawled on the inside cover grabs my attention: “Jebediah Bassler.” Of Bassler House? Bassler Road, and Bassler Memorial Library? This is interesting, to say the least.

I am aware that he is like looking at my face for a long time and is keep on glancing at me. “Ahmmnn a book entitled Wuthering Heights by Emily Bonte, Nicholas Nickleby by Charles Dickens, and hemmnn Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen.” I said as I look into the books there. “I see, those are rare books now since they are old and people nowadays don’t like sad and pure narration stories.” Henry said and I just nod. Henry is now helping me through the pile of books. It was almost 30 minutes yet we haven’t found one of the 3 books.

"I need something to occupy my mind, not sedate it, little bird. Something dramatic, passionate, maybe a classic tragedy." ​We paused in front of a section devoted to foreign literature. ​"How about Wuthering Heights?" I suggested, pulling the dense volume from the shelf. "All-consuming passion, deep obsession, and tragic consequences. A perfect distraction." ​He took the book from my hand as his fingers brushed mine. A contact that lasted a mere second but felt like an electric jolt. I immediately hid my hand behind me. He weighed the book in his hand, not looking at the title but at me.

“Well, having a degree in English Literature, you’d think so. But I love so many of them. I’m partial to the classics—Keats and Shelley, Lord Byron, Shakespeare…” “So you’re a romantic, huh?” she teased, keeping her back to him as she perused his impressive collection. Running his hands through his hair, he grinned. “I’m impressed you know your eighteenth century literature, young lady.” The back of her blonde tresses moved up and down as she seemed to nod. Before he could suggest she pick out a book to read over the weekend, she suddenly squealed with delight. “Oh! I loved this book in high school.” Standing on her tiptoes, she pulled down a thin paperback and turned