The Classics
The Count of Monte Cristo
A classic for a reason. As a result of a generally misspent youth, I’ve been trying to read some of the classic adventure novels that I should have read long ago. The Count of Monte Cristo sat unread on my shelves for too long until my wife brought it down, worked her way through 1300 pages, and exhorted me to follow suit.
I read Robinson Crusoe a year or so ago, and I loved it. Everyone knows the gist of the story, but what amazes me, about both of these works, is how modern they are. Every generation seems to think that they’ve invented the world, or that the world was invented for their pleasure, but it hasn’t, and that is a fact of which we need to be reminded. I’ve never watched the program Lost, bit it has its antecedents.
And I can’t imagine anything much more terrifying than after having spent years alone on an island, and resolved oneself to that fate, to find suddenly on the pristine beach a single footprint, revealing indelibly that you are not alone after all.
And the Wyeth illustrations are like a portal into the past.
