Reading The Classics Novels & Stories

I just roll my eyes and he continues, “But thanks to that, my eyes fell on this poor soul who is trying to find a book for English class to do her essay on, you have to hear their assignment, it’s so interesting. I am so eager for our English class; they have so many cool assignments like these. So apparently you have to find a story from the classics, like duh, you have to. I mean that’s why they are called classic.”

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.

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."

"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?"

"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."

But this young man been amuse of the old and couldn't just forgot it. He said once that is echoed out in silence, “There's a classics that will reveal the fragments. Whether the one of a mind or the reflection of the heart, the classics will uncover what is the truest and beyond imagination!” He receive the reply, yet he couldn't understand how vague it is and couldn't even reach his understanding. Even now he thought the matter, the person he's with is blur and is distorted out. This person's seems replacing by something else and become the traces that couldn't grasp!

If he can see every move I make, how will I ever make a move against him? During my rampage of a small bookshelf on the wall next to the bed, I find classic books such as, The Catcher in the Rye, Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, and so on. Spotting amongst the classics a leather bound book with no title or author. I slowly open it and inside handwritten pages are revealed. May 12th 1998

I didn't like to think of people being mean to Ivy. Most of the photos she was reading in them so I looked at the names of the books that she was reading. It seemed that she liked the classics. I wonder which ones she doesn't have. That was my mission. To find out which books she doesn't have and to see where I can get them from if they are hard to find. I knew that I could find them. And I would. I would do anything for Ivy.

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.

he said with a grin. "I know and I really am interested to read those books again" I kind of wished to reread those antique classics as I remembered them. Now I was starting to feel the thrill of reading such literature. Because the last time, I was so shocked and devastated that I failed to recognize how fascinating the material in the book was. He responded with amazement, "You do?" "Of course. Learning new things and information was really my thing and those old-age books have extra points"