Classic Novels That Even Hesitant Readers Love Novels & Stories

he said softly, leaning towards Sammy. - Why? She raised her eyes. – Like, is it not very fashionable to be interested in classical literature? Doyle shrugged. "It's not fashionable to be stupid," he said. - And in the classics you can learn a lot of useful things. Unless, of course, you know where to look. "I didn't know you were a reader," Sammy giggled. “Okay, then how did you figure out Jane Eyre?” - Frog, it's so simple. Travis's blue eyes sparkled. - You look like a heroine.

“I know what you mean. I had one too—it was a family outing for us, going to the library. My mom insisted my brother and I read books if we wanted to play video games. I was that nerdy kid who actually preferred reading to gaming. I guess it carried over into adulthood.” Fiona’s gaze focused on his face, and one side of her mouth smirked. “Nothing wrong with that.” Handing the book back to him, she continued to investigate the books lining the shelves. “Do you have a favorite in here or in one of the boxes?” Chris chuckled. “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…”

Alana let go of our hands, darting toward the children’s section at the end of the hall. Suddenly, it was just the two of us. Standing side by side in the narrow aisle of classic literature. Gareth tucked his hands into his pockets, scanning the spines of the books with a quiet, respectful interest. "What do you usually go for, Claire?" he asked softly. His voice seemed to blend into the hum of the air conditioning. I ran my fingers along the worn spines of the hardcovers. "The classics. Jane Austen, the Brontës... anything with beautiful prose and a happy ending. I suppose I like the escape."

I doubt I would ever have to bring someone into my bedroom but it never hurts to be prepared. That kind of love sounded like a myth but I knew it was out there for whoever was lucky enough to find it. I had never been lucky and I doubt I would ever be. I picked up pride and prejudice, my all time favorite classic and wondered when and if I would ever find my own Mr. Darcy. Shoving sentiments aside, I opened the large bag I had come with and shoved some of the books in it. I would read them every night and come back for more when I was done with the pile.

At the bottom of the shelf, though, were a handful of romance novels—in English, no less. I pulled out a historical romance by a favorite author of mine. I hadn’t read this one, and I’d already finished the one romance I’d brought with me. I was a total bore and preferred to read printed books still. Probably because they smelled nice. If e-readers could let out a puff of new-book scent, though, I’d buy one in a heartbeat. “The Seduction of Miss Emily Morris,” Olivier read over my shoulder. “That rather gives the plot away, no?”

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.

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.

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.

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.

he stated and went back to his phone. Then we had literature. The topic was classic genre. “Which English authors you can name from classic genre?” Mr. Adams asked. I raised my hand, but so did Raf, which caught me off guard. “Raf, please name them!” teacher asked. “Jane Austen, sisters Brontes, Charles Dickens and of course, William Shakespeare,” Raf stated. “Great! Who is your favorite author?”