Classic Book Novels & Stories

Clara’s eyes popped on the red leather-bound book that was thicker and heavier than a normal book. There was a sign of old age, but there were no other damages. It also seemed to be well taken care of. She turned it over at a different angle to inspect and figure out anything, but nothing else—not even the name of its writer—was written other than the title itself.

Emma said, walking deep into the living room. "Thanks." She walked to a set of shelves on the far side of the room, running her fingers over the spines of his books. A lot of them were classics, novels by Dickens, Voltaire, Dumas, Melville, and Hemingway. She smiled when her fingers ran over the spine of not one, but three copies of Mitchell's Gone with the Wind. There were modern novels, too, including Stephen King and Sidney Sheldon, but they didn't look as well read as some of the others.

Saturday class was a small group that morning. Some days the roster swelled to the point that we had to move to the library to fit everybody. When I had my druthers, though, I kept it in my own classroom. Easier and more comfortable for me to get stuff done in there without having to relocate, and frankly, the books I had on my shelf to keep bored students awake were better than what our librarian kept on stock. Calvin and Hobbes anthologies, Jack Handey's The Stench of Honolulu, or, for kids I trusted better, Gary Brodsky's The Art of Getting Even: The Do-It-Yourself Justice Manual. Some real gems in my collection.

Miss Bolanle repeated herself and I sat up straight. 'I... I think...' I cleared my throat. 'I think they are necessary books to escape realities for a while. Books like that served as companions for most of while growing up.' She nodded and she started to say something else to the class. Classics were like my sanctuary while growing up. I was especially fond of Cinderella and Thumbelina's story. I actually thought a fairy godmother would appear or a swallow would turn up to fly me out of my big yet empty childhood. Miss Bolanle excused herself from the class even though we still had like 20 minutes more and the class broke into loud murmurs when she left. I started packing my books when I f

the girl observed, knowing that while everyone had their sports preferences, they shared a great passion for literature. "No way!" The older man doubted. "Young people are interested in the old and good literature still?" "My grandfather has a large library at home, and fortunately, he made my cousin and me read several classic works, and I ended up liking some of them a lot. I've read Great Expectations more than once... and also Oliver Twist. I didn't like Bleak House that much, not to say that I love everything I've read from him, but, on the other hand, probably The Old Curiosity Shop is the book I've read the most times in my life."

A reader? I feel drawn to the shelf like a moth to a flame. My fingers trail over the spines — classic literature, philosophy, ancient history. Lost in the titles, my eyes land on a beautiful leather-bound edition of Wuthering Heights. I rise onto my toes, straining, my fingers just brushing its edge. It wobbles and then falls from the shelf with a heavy thud that sends a cloud of dust into the air making me sneeze twice.

I watched her as she expertly logged the books and placed it on the cart by the section it should be placed on. “It’s The Night of the Holy Grail.” August halted in the middle of turning over an old copy of Don Quixote. I knew that would get her attention. In the weeks I’ve known August, there is nothing she loves more than everything classic and medieval. She quickly flickered her eyes on me before returning to her work.

She tore the box open. Inside this box were a dozen books. Most looked the same—typical bindings, mostly classics. But one book stood out immediately. It didn’t look anything like the others. It was thick, overstuffed and weathered, with leather binding. It looked as if it had been through a war. And it looked ancient.

I sighed a little to myself as the bathroom door closed behind him, taking a seat at one of the sofas much like he had before me. I picked up the book he had been reading, a well worn hardcover. It was War and Peace. I'd spent night reading it over and over. By now, I had nearly memorised it, along with a few other classics my nanny had slipped to me surreptitiously. I flipped to the first page of the book, gasping. It was a first edition! These were hard to come by, specially for someone like me. Eagerly, I flipped to the page he had bookmarked.