British writer John Donne once said: “No man is an island; every book is a world.” As an enthusiastic reader, I can't agree with the latter part of the sentence more. Every summer, I endeavor to find some peaceful places where I can attack some classics without being disturbed. Thomas Hardy wants to live far from the madding crowd. I am no friend to chaos, either.
I read George Orwell's 1984 in a New England beachside cottage with no locks on the doors, no telephones or televisions in the rooms. 1984 is a good book that needs deep reflection. Attempting Sound and Fury lying on the bed of a poorly-occupied motel, however, was less fruitful: I made it through one and a quarter volumes, but then my eyelids were so heavy that I couldn't keep them open.
But this summer I find myself at a loss. I'm not quite interested in J.D.Salinger, say, or Frankenstein. There's always War and Peace which I've covered some distance several times, only to get bogged down in the “War” part, set it aside for a while, and realize that I have to start over from the beginning again, having forgotten everyone's name and social rank. How appealing to simply fall back on a favorite—once more into The Call of the Wild or Alice in the Wonderland, which feels almost like cheating, too exciting and too much fun to properly belong to serious literature.
And then there's John Steinbeck's The Grapes of Wrath. This title does not amaze but confuse. We're never short of sour grapes, but we've never heard of angry grapes. Anyway grapes are my favorite fruit of summer. These stone fruits can always make me feel cheerful and peaceful all at once.
