I come from suburbia, which means that every time I go home for the summer there is absolutely nothing to do beyond hanging out with my circle of high school friends and drink. Our conversational topics usually depend on whatever's lying around my living room or basement-for some reason, everyone always winds up at my house, even when I do not know they are in town.
On my last visit home, one of these topics wound up being George Orwell's \1984,"" which my brother had just completed reading, thanks to his girlfriend. Someone-I forget who, as a bottle of Captain Morgan was being passed from armchair to sofa and back again-saw it on the mantle and brought it into the conversation.
""Oh yeah, '1984.' Great book. What'd you think of it Les?""
""Uh, yeah-I've actually never read it.""
The room became so quiet you'd think someone had thrown the bottle against the wall. My friend Chad was the first to speak. ""How could you have not read '1984?' That's the sort of book you have to read just to be a pretentious asshole and say you've read it.""
Yes, it is true. I, a literature columnist and pretentious asshole, have never read ""1984"" or even skimmed any of it beyond the opening where the clock strikes 13. My wall of shame doesn't end there, either-I've never read ""Catcher in the Rye,"" ""Moby Dick,"" ""Red Badge of Courage,"" anything by Ayn Rand or any of the ""Harry Potter"" series. (I'm guessing I don't need to ask which one will offend my reader base the most.)
So why have I never gotten around to attacking this stack of epics? There's a wide variety of reasons-laziness and cheapness come to mind, but I think the main reason is my rebellious nature toward being told what to read. As years of high school English, scholarship essay contests no one ever wins, and Calvin and Hobbes should have taught you, it only counts as fun if nobody makes you do it.
When I introduce a classic book into my life, it tends to be a personal whim that drives its addition to my library. There's a surplus of Fitzgerald at the used bookstore? Time to pull out my wallet. A friend accidentally leaves a copy of ""On the Road"" at my house? I know how my weekend will be spent. My brother's buys the complete ""Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy"" series? Guess he won't be seeing it for a couple weeks.
Recommendations and loans from friends can help you make the decision, but social pressure should never be the reason to pick up a book. Classic books were birthed through a mix of bullshit, boredom, alcoholism and a small dose of brilliance, and trying to force them into your life can spoil your enjoyment of that combination for good.
I'm sure that before too long something will bring Orwell into my life, be it a battered copy at Paul's Books or my brother's girlfriend not picking up her copy from our house during the next Christmas vacation. Until then, I'll have to find some other way to secure the pretentious asshole title.
If you would like to chide Les for his spurning of classics, feel free to e-mail him at lmchappell@wisc.edu
