Developing a Taste for Good Books

Here’s a question: why do people read the classics? It’s not because they’re “important” in some abstract way; it’s not that they’re “good for you,” like literary vegetables. In truth the real classics, the works that truly have earned a place in the canon, are read because they’re the most satisfying and enjoyable books to read. They are, in the most concise way of putting it, good books.

Yet for many readers, the classics are books that seem dull and difficult, only to be read under duress, for a class or a particularly unfortunate book group. Why is this? There are a lot of reasons (some of which stem from cultural and educational problems that run deeper than anything I can address here), but one reason is a simple one: if you haven’t developed a taste for good books, you won’t enjoy them. Conversely, once you do develop that taste, you’ll find the best books, the classics, to be the very best of literary friends.

How does one acquire such a taste, and why don’t more of us have it?

Let me take a roundabout approach to the answer.

To begin with, there are some books that are not great, but still very good. These are books that are good in moral content, well written enough to be good for the mind, and fun as well – Harry Potter springs to mind. I like Harry Potter and I think they’re good books to read – but it would be a rather bland mental and emotional diet to read nothing but Harry Potter.

Further down in the middle range are books that are well written but void of significant content (entertaining and harmless fluff); books that are morally sound and/or intellectually nourishing, but badly written (many non-fiction books fall into this category); books that are morally sound, intellectually vapid, and badly written (alas, most of what appears in the Christian Fiction section at B&N); and books that are both badly written and void of significant content (the majority of what you find in airport newsstands).

Inoffensive fluff has the problem that it can deaden one’s capacity for appreciating truly great literature. It’s not the content that’s the problem. The problem is that fluff is sticky. You get used to it. Bad writing is easy to read; you don’t have to wrestle with it, because whatever’s there, is right there on the surface. Bad writing doesn’t make you think; it numbs the mind rather than develops it, even when the way that it numbs is through over-stimulation of the senses. (Incidentally, I recommend C.S. Lewis’ book An Experiment in Criticism for those who are interested in exploring the idea of good, and bad, ways of reading. Absolutely worthwhile.)

The deadening effect is real. When I was in junior high and high school, I read volume after volume of science fiction and fantasy novels. I approve of science fiction and fantasy, done right, and I would say that it helped develop certain aspects of my imagination in ways that would be important to me later on… especially since I eventually found myself reading the very best fantasy, such as Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings. The problem was (as with any genre) there is a lot of trash alongside the good stuff, and I got in the habit of reading vast quantities of insipid writing, at a very rapid pace. I had no one with whom to discuss what I read, so there was no check on my reading speed, and no way to find out, in dialogue, that some of the books I was reading were richer and deeper than others.

Then, when I first encountered Jane Austen, in college, I found her books incomprehensible. Nothing really happened, or when it did, I didn’t see the connections between what had gone before and what was happening now. I was so used to the action and drama of science fiction and fantasy, the epic sweep of sagas that involved mythic heroes and titanic struggles for ultimate power, that I failed to notice the nuances of conversation, the shades of characterization expressed in fine detail.

Fortunately, I was always a venturesome reader, and a stubborn one, so I kept venturing out into the literary world beyond my fluffy ghetto, and I started finding books and poems that resonated more deeply with me. I recognized that some books gave me something more, something deeper than my usual reading fare, and over time I gained a taste for these books. This was a good thing, in fact a life-changing thing, for it opened up to me a world of ideas that challenged me and nourished me at the same time. I discovered that the best authors spoke to me about what was real, what was true – and even when I found the path to be difficult, I knew this was the territory I wanted to explore.

Gerard Manley Hopkins, John Donne, C.S. Lewis had things to say to me that I needed to hear, but it took time and the development of a more sensitive readerly response to be able to hear them.

Recently I realized that as my literary sense has matured, my preferences have grown narrower, and deeper.

I no longer enjoy reading fluff. Having developed a taste for the really good stuff, I no longer find less well-crafted books to be engaging. In a sense, I have lost something – I cannot return to that readerly state in which I could pick up any science fiction tale and find in it something to entertain me. That is gone.

Yet I have gained infinitely more. While I had the immature palate, or the deadened one, many of the best authors were closed to me, or I could only get a bare hint of their power. Now, the entire canon of great literature is open to me in a way that it never was before. Even my light reading has become richer. When I want to relax, I still enjoy reading fantasy or a mystery novel… but instead of reading just any old thing, I read Dorothy Sayers or P.D. James.

I re-discovered Austen this year, at age 35. She’s an amazing writer! How could I have thought her books were dull? The books were the same… but the reader was very, very different.

So I would say that there is a reason to avoid reading fluff. Read good books, instead. The more you read good books, the more you will develop a taste for them, and the more you will enjoy them.

But how do you find the books that are truly worth reading, if there are so few compared to the pulsating ebb and flow of new books put out every year?

I would suggest two ways:

1. Read the classics.

2. Find an intelligent, well-read, thoughtful person whom you respect, someone whose guidance on moral matters is trustworthy. Read what he or she suggests to you.

Option 1. is easier because you can find lists of the Great Books, and buy copies easily in any bookstore or borrow them in any library. But Option 2. is better if you can manage it, because a trustworthy friend’s recommendations for reading are worth their weight in gold. The friend knows you, after all, as well as the book. The friend doesn’t have to be someone you actually know in person, because you might find a writer whose advice is consistently trustworthy; for instance, I have done very well in reading books mentioned by C.S. Lewis in his own writing.

I am truly fortunate, though, in having real friends who recommend books to me, and not only that, friends with whom I can discuss books and ideas. If you have such a friendship, cherish it as the blessing that it is.

Let me open up the conversation – what have been your experiences with reading good books? For my fellow readers of classic books, how did you develop a taste for them?

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