Classic Novel Reading List Novels & Stories

"Like reading. I already know you're a bookworm, Ruby." Ruby's eyes lit up instantly, her inner literary critic emerging. "Oh, so the billionaire remembers? Please don't tell me your reading list is just boring finance textbooks and business biographies." "Actually," I leaned in a fraction of an inch, a teasing glint in my eyes, "I prefer classic literature. Russian realism, psychological thrillers. Dostoyevsky, Fitzgerald, Hemingway. I like substance."

The deliberation was the deliberation of someone who had arrived and was now simply inhabiting the arrival. He was reading novels. Not the difficult novels he had read during the writing—the philosophical texts, the poetic sequences, the works of modernist difficulty that had fed the argument. Don was reading detective novels. He was reading the novels of Barbara Pym, which Caroline had recommended years ago and which he had never had time for. He was reading Anthony Powell's A Dance to the Music of Time, slowly, volume by volume, not because he was studying it but because he was enjoying the experience of being inside a long narrative that someone else had written.

Leading the way into the living room, she added, "And there's a couple of new radio shows that debuted last month. Nothing that stands out though. I think you're right. I miss Alias Jimmy Valentine too." "Oh! Not there, please, Lily! Those have to go back to the library." With an annoyed flick of a brow, Lily lifted her coffee mug to give Evelyn time to move the books aside. "The Roman Revolution. Diplomacy," she commented drily, tilting her head to one side, reading the titles along the book spines. "The Empire of the Steppes. The Wimsey Papers. Why can't you just read Agatha Christie like everyone else?"

“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.

I walked slowly along the shelves, running my fingers along the spines of books, reading titles. There were a lot of books in Greek, which I couldn't read. Some in what looked like Russian—more Cyrillic letters. Those were probably for Zade. But there was also an entire section in English. I moved closer, examining the titles more carefully. And stopped in surprise. These weren't just random books. This was a carefully curated collection. There were classics I'd mentioned loving in conversations with my father over the years. Pride and Prejudice. Jane Eyre. Wuthering Heights.

Again she felt as though his words held hidden meaning and guilt flooded her at the thought of her true intentions. “What do you like to read?” “Well, Baudelaire, as I said, although some would say he is very maudlin. I like the classics.” “Like?” “Dickens, Homer..” “Aren’t they English writers?” “Yes, did you not study the classics at school?” she looked at him as though she was chiding him. “I didn’t go to Middlesex Prep.” Her head went back a little, absorbing what he had said. “How do you know I went there?”

It's been three days since she started delaying the inevitable event of being stuck with Dom in Canterbury. After minutes of pondering, she stood up and reached the small shelf of books she has. Her eyes locked on two books, Jane Eyre by Emily Bronte and Great Expectations by Charles Dickens. She had just finished reading Persuasion, and she was still on the assessment of her feelings towards the ending of the story. Maybe another book can take her mind off things. She decided on Great Expectations, gladly picking up the book and bouncing back to her bed, to enjoy another pleasurable surmount of reading a book.

“Only because it’s an emergency.” Elmo rubbed his eyes, and blinked away fatigue. As his vision cleared he found himself looking at Lucas’ bookshelf, and his heart sank as he surveyed the spines of books his friend loved so much. There were copies of The Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew, The Three Investigators and The Secret Seven, as well as modern mystery thrillers by authors such as Lee Child and James Patterson. But there were also older novels that Elmo recalled as movies on TCM but had never read. He saw Treasure Island and Ivanhoe, Tom Sawyer and Robinson Crusoe.

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.

But she hoped that even Scar wouldn't sink so low as to ruin their wedding day. After everything ws organized and put away, Lacey headed out to the living room and poured herself a glass of wine. Then she eyed the wall of books on the far wall. John Grisham... Tom Clancy.... Then there were classics such as The Three Musketeers, The Man in the Iron Mask, both by Alexandre Dumas; as well as Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea and From the Earth to the Moon, both by Jules Verne; and much more. It was an impressive collection. She chose From the Earth to the Moon and then sat on the couch to wait for Julien.