Charles Dickens – From The Middle Blog

Jus’ read “braniac” Fischal rant on “CLASSIC BOOKS” Now I’m fixin’ to say somethin’ that’ll get me side-eyed by folks who keep a leather-bound set of so-called “great books” sittin’ up high on a shelf where nobody can reach ’em. But I ain’t never been much for whisperin’ truth just ’cause it makes somebody’s tea go lukewarm. They tell us certain books are “classics.” That means, near as I can figure, that enough professors, critics, and city folks done agreed they’re important, and the rest of us are expected to nod polite and say, “Yes ma’am, yes sir,” even if we couldn’t stay awake past chapter three. Two of the biggest sacred cows in that pasture are Moby-Dick by Herman Melville, and A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens. Well, I’m here to say they ain’t classics ’cause they’re great. They’re classics ’cause they’re old and survived. And that ain’t the same thing. Age Don’t Equal Worth. See, folks get age confused with quality. Just ’cause somethin’s been around a long time don’t mean it deserves the front porch rocker. I got a busted washtub out back been sittin’ there twenty years. Don’t make it fine china. “Moby-Dick” gets praised like it’s holy writ. But ask the average reader what they remember about it, and you’ll hear: “Whale.” Maybe “Call me Ishmael.” After that? Fog rolls in. It’s three hundred pages of whalin’ facts, rope measurements, and cetology lectures that feel like you’re trapped in a maritime hardware catalog. If I want to know the cross-section of a sperm whale’s skull, I’ll ask a marine biologist. When I sit down to read a novel, I expect a story — not a shipping manifest. Now I ain’t sayin’ Melville couldn’t write. The man could string a sentence long enough to wrap around a lighthouse twice. But just because you can make a sentence run on like a creek after rain don’t mean you ought to. A classic ought to move people. It ought to speak plain enough that a working man or woman can hear it. Instead, “Moby-Dick” reads like it’s challengin’ you to a duel. You ever notice how folks who praise it loudest also like to mention how many times they’ve reread it? That ain’t devotion. That’s survivorship. Hard to Read Ain’t the Same as Deep. There’s this notion floatin’ around that if a book is difficult, it must be profound. Like if you don’t understand it, that’s your fault — not the author’s. Now I’ve sat through sermons that wandered so far from the Good Book you’d think the preacher got lost in Numbers. That don’t make ’em holy. It just makes ’em long. Same with “A Tale of Two Cities.” Dickens opens with that famous line: “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…” Folks clap like he discovered oxygen. But what comes after? Paragraphs so packed with description they feel like they’re elbowin’ each other for room. Dickens loved words the way some folks love gravy — just keep pourin’ till the plate disappears. You ever try handin’ that book to a teenager raised on clear storytelling? They look at you like you handed ’em a brick. Language evolves. Storytelling evolves. But we keep pretendin’ struggle equals significance. It don’t. If Nobody Reads It Willin’, Is It Truly Classic? Let me ask you somethin’ plain. If a book is mostly read because a teacher assigns it — not because folks can’t wait to turn the page — what exactly makes it timeless? Take them school curriculums. They haul out “Moby-Dick” and “A Tale of Two Cities” year after year like they’re heirloom quilts. Students read ’em, write papers, and then—soon as the final exam’s done—they never open ’em again. Now compare that to stories people pass hand to hand without bein’ told to. Stories that get dog-eared. Stories quoted at kitchen tables. A classic ought to live outside a syllabus. If it only breathes in a classroom, that ain’t timeless. That’s institutional life support. The Weight of Academia Here’s somethin’ nobody says out loud: the idea of “classics” gets guarded like a gated community. Scholars write papers about symbolism in the whiteness of the whale. They build careers discussin’ the psychology of Ahab’s obsession. They analyze Dickens’ critique of social injustice in revolutionary France. Now, don’t get me wrong — themes of obsession and injustice matter. But if you need a doctorate to enjoy the story, maybe the story ain’t doin’ its job. A true classic don’t require a commentary to function. It hits you in the chest first, then in the head. When you gotta read three essays before you can appreciate a chapter, that’s homework — not art. Story Should Come First Let’s talk bones and meat. A novel’s backbone is story. Character. Momentum. “Moby-Dick” spends chapters driftin’ like a becalmed schooner. You get whole sections that feel detached from the main pursuit. It’s like Melville forgot he was tellin’ a tale and started writin’ an encyclopedia. And “A Tale of Two Cities” — well, Dickens had a habit of publishin’ serially, which means he padded and stretched and cliff-hung to keep readers buyin’ the next installment. That makes for drama, sure, but it also makes for bloat. If you trimmed both books down by a third, you might have something lean and strong. Instead, they’re monuments. And monuments ain’t meant to be lived in. The “Important” Argument. Anytime you question these books, someone says, “But they’re important.” Important how? Because they influenced other writers? Because they captured their era? Because critics agreed they mattered? That’s history, not necessarily greatness. We don’t call every old courthouse beautiful just ’cause it stood through two wars. Influence ain’t the same as readability. Historical value ain’t the same as emotional power. If a modern writer turned in a manuscript structured like “Moby-Dick,” an editor might politely suggest tightening it up. If a new novelist opened with Dickens’ density, half the… Continue reading Them “Classics” Ain’t Classic — They’re Just Old

Walk into any library, bookstore, or high school English classroom in America and you will find the same names quietly holding their ground: Moby-Dick, A Tale of Two Cities, Pride and Prejudice, The Great Gatsby, War and Peace. They are assigned. They are cited. They are revered. They are also, for many readers, unfinished. It is fashionable—and often honest—to admit that these books can feel slow, verbose, morally didactic, structurally meandering, or linguistically archaic. Modern readers, conditioned by the velocity of digital media and the compression of contemporary prose, may find them exhausting. So the question is legitimate: Why are they still considered classics? Why are they not quietly retired in favor of more accessible modern works? And, perhaps more provocatively, why should anyone read them today? This essay addresses those questions directly—without romanticism. We will examine what “classic” actually means in literary discourse, why works such as Moby-Dick and A Tale of Two Cities retain canonical status, and whether the case for reading them remains persuasive in the 21st century. Along the way, I will offer concise but meaningful synopses of each. What Do We Mean by “Classic”? The term “classic” is not synonymous with “popular,” “easy,” or even “enjoyable.” In literary studies, a classic is generally understood to possess several characteristics: Endurance — It has survived across generations. Influence — It has shaped subsequent literature or cultural discourse. Complexity — It supports multiple interpretations over time. Thematic Universality — It addresses enduring human concerns. Formal or Stylistic Innovation — It expanded or refined narrative technique. Importantly, a classic need not be widely read in any given decade. Popularity and canonical status are not identical. Many contemporary bestsellers will not survive fifty years. Conversely, some classics were commercial failures in their own time (Moby-Dick being the most famous example). The label “classic” is ultimately conferred by sustained academic, cultural, and institutional endorsement—universities, publishers, critics, educators, and literary historians. That endorsement persists when a work continues to generate serious engagement. Now let us examine two of the most commonly criticized yet canonized works. Moby-Dick: Obsession, Knowledge, and the Limits of Man Synopsis Published in 1851 by Herman Melville, Moby-Dick begins with one of the most famous openings in literature: “Call me Ishmael.” The narrator, Ishmael, joins a whaling voyage aboard the Pequod, commanded by the monomaniacal Captain Ahab. Ahab is consumed by a singular obsession: to hunt and kill Moby Dick, a massive white whale that previously maimed him, taking his leg. The novel unfolds on multiple levels: A maritime adventure narrative. A philosophical meditation. An encyclopedic account of whaling practices. A psychological portrait of obsession. A symbolic exploration of good, evil, fate, and knowledge. The pursuit culminates in catastrophe. Ahab’s obsession overrides reason, duty, and collective survival. The Pequod is destroyed. The crew perishes. Only Ishmael survives to tell the tale. Why Is It Considered a Classic? 1. It Expanded the Novel’s Scope Before Moby-Dick, the American novel had not fully embraced such intellectual ambition. Melville fused: Shakespearean dramatic language, Biblical cadence, Scientific exposition, Philosophical inquiry, Maritime realism. The book refuses to be a simple adventure story. It interrogates epistemology (how we know what we know), theology, metaphysics, race, labor, capitalism, and environmental exploitation. That scope alone marked a structural innovation. 2. It Is a Study of Obsession Captain Ahab remains one of literature’s most powerful depictions of destructive fixation. His quest is not merely revenge—it is metaphysical defiance. He projects cosmic malice onto the whale and seeks to strike through “the mask” of reality itself. Obsession as a theme has permeated modern storytelling—from noir detectives to antihero dramas. Ahab is a template. 3. It Anticipates Modernism Melville’s shifting narrative modes, digressions, and symbolic density anticipate literary modernism decades before it formally emerged. The novel destabilizes narrative authority and resists closure in ways that feel strikingly modern. Why Do Many Readers Find It Boring? The criticisms are understandable: Long digressions into whale taxonomy. Dense, archaic prose. Dramatic monologues that feel theatrical. Structural irregularity. It demands patience. It demands re-reading. It does not prioritize entertainment. For readers seeking narrative efficiency, it can feel punishing. But difficulty is not synonymous with poor craftsmanship. It often signals intellectual density. A Tale of Two Cities: Revolution, Sacrifice, and Historical Memory. Synopsis Published in 1859 by Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities is set in London and Paris before and during the French Revolution. The novel follows several intertwined characters: Dr. Alexandre Manette, unjustly imprisoned in the Bastille for 18 years. His daughter Lucie, symbol of compassion and renewal. Charles Darnay, a French aristocrat who rejects his family’s cruelty. Sydney Carton, a disillusioned English lawyer who resembles Darnay physically but lives in moral despair. As revolutionary fervor intensifies in France, Darnay is arrested and condemned to death due to his aristocratic lineage. In a climactic act of redemption, Sydney Carton takes Darnay’s place at the guillotine, sacrificing his life so Lucie and her family may live. “It is a far, far better thing that I do…” Why Is It Considered a Classic? 1. It Humanizes Historical Trauma Dickens does not merely narrate the French Revolution. He dramatizes the emotional consequences of systemic injustice. The novel recognizes both: The brutality of aristocratic oppression. The savagery of revolutionary vengeance. It avoids simplistic moral binaries. The oppressed can become oppressors. Justice can become bloodlust. 2. Thematic Permanence Sacrifice, resurrection, identity, and social upheaval remain relevant. Political polarization and populist uprisings make the book’s warnings contemporary. 3. Narrative Architecture Dickens constructs the novel with deliberate symmetry—two cities, doubles, mirrored identities. The structural pairing reinforces its themes of contrast and duality. Why Do Modern Readers Resist It? Melodrama can feel excessive. Coincidences strain plausibility. Victorian sentimentality can seem heavy-handed. Prose can feel ornamental. Yet Dickens’ emotional intensity was part of his cultural function: he serialized fiction for mass audiences and sought to move readers morally and politically. The Deeper Question: Why Read Them at All? If the prose feels antiquated and the pacing slow, why persist? … Continue reading Why the “Old Classics” Are Still Called Classics — Even When Few People Read Them