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
