Classic Novel Reading List Novels & Stories

“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

He started to help her unpack her books, glancing at the spines as they started to shelve them in a tiny bookshelf that wouldn’t hold even half of her collection. Jane Austen, Charlotte Brontë, Elizabeth Gaskell, John Keats, Shakespeare, Virginia Woolf, Charles Dickens—so many books, most of which had clearly been read over and over again. Some were falling apart, barely glued together. When he took out a copy of Frankenstein, the cover fell off entirely. “Oh, poor guy. This one has been through a lot.” Rose took the book from him, smiling. That smile burst something inside him. Something hot, something dangerous. Something that felt exactly like longing. He caught his breath and forced hims

It was a study room. “I’m really sorry. I will just go.” I walked in the direction I came in. I couldn’t comprehend why I keep messing up everything. First it was climbing into his bed when he wasn’t there, then the embarrassing Leo story that my bestfriends took the honor of narrating. “Stay.” He muttered. I stopped in my tracks and looked puzzlingly at him. I avoided eye contact and settled my gaze to the books on the shelf. They were classics from Jane Eyre down to the Lord of the Flies. At the bottom of the shelf stood a huge collection of contemporary romance novels, the largest list I had ever seen someone possess.

"And what's your favorite?" "Oh that's too hard to choose sir. I mean of course I love classics like The Great Gatsby, 1984, and One Flew of the Cuckoo's Nest. I'm crazy about the James Bond books. But I have to say Misery is my favorite book. Stephen King is a genius." "So all that's told me is you read in high school and that's it. Aren't those all required reading?" "Daddy." I whispered. He took a long gulp from his glass. Sophia closed her eyes as though she was embarrassed.

Well, aren't you his fan? "Do you have something else in mind?" he asks in a normal tone of voice, ignoring my question. How rude! I scowl, but I’m hardly affected. "Um . . . Northanger Abbey, Jane Austen," I tell him. "Or maybe . . . Sense and Sensibility?" I contradict my own choices, and he smiles at it. "Is Jane Austen your favorite?" he asks, a sweet glow in his cool eyes. "If we're speaking of Classic romance, then yes, she's my favorite. I prefer happy ending than tragedies, and Jane Austen always grants my wish." I go dreamy; oblivious of whom I'm talking to.

I said. "Well then," he said. "Please enlighten me: what is your favorite film and book?" "Favorite film is Gone with The Wind, favorite book is Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy." He grimaced. "I half-expected the gushy romance part, but not the lack of happy endings," Adam said. ''Lack of happy endings?!'' I asked. "Says the man whose favorite book is The Art of War..." "I see your point." I leaned forward and pulled out the bag of breakfast that Mrs. Chandler had sent us.

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.

Other than my bestie, April of course. I can see the woodland straight in front of me and a lake, it’s serene and tranquil. Perfect for sitting on the deck and reading a book. I’m a huge book nerd and at the moment I’m in my classical era and currently reading Anna Karenina. One of my all-time favorites but it is an epic.

So while he stands behind me watching me, which both intimidates and excites me, I take each book out, one by one, pulling them from the bookcase, some wonderful editions of Jane Austen, Dickens, Ovid, Homer, Kundera and then 'For Whom the Bell Tolls' and, finally, Lolita. As I put Lolita on the top pile, I let out a sigh. I feel Paul slowly approach from behind me.

The warm glow is enough for me, as my feet shuffle towards the books. All first collections. My fingers reach for their spines as I go from row to row, my eyes getting even wider as I move. Jane Austen’s first collection. To Kill a Mockingbird. Pride and Prejudice. Crime and Punishment. Ulysses. The Great Gatsby. These had to have cost a fortune. I reach the end of the top row and grab a book. Jane Eyre. A door cracks open in a corner, but it sounds so far away that I don’t move. Until a second later when I hear footsteps right behind me.