For most of my life, I had generally avoided novels written before I was born. They were stodgy. The language was outdated. They were boring. Even if they were significant in the historical sense, I saw them as the literary equivalent of reading the King James Version of the Bible.
I was wrong, of course, but I didn’t realize that until the last decade or so. I first started reading English translations of some Russian classics. I came to love Leo Tolstoy’s “Anna Karenina” and Fyodor Dostoevsky’s “The Brothers Karamazov,” among others.
Then a friend introduced me to German novelist Hermann Hesse. To one extent or another, I found that I loved “Steppenwolf,” “Siddhartha,” “Narcissus and Goldmund” and “The Glass Bead Game.” I’ve read “Narcissus and Goldmund” four times so far — and I keep finding new things to appreciate about it.
But I was slow to appreciate the English writer Charles Dickens — and I’ve come to understand that this has meant depriving myself of a kind of literary joy that I haven’t experienced for a long time. I just finished the Dickens novel, “David Copperfield,” a few hours ago — and I’d like to suggest that this book is better than almost any fiction that’s been written since I was born.
I’m left feeling serious regret that I’ve had such a huge hole in my education about literature and human existence.

What do you really want in life? Believe actions, not empty goals
Unhappiness can’t hide forever when life has gone very wrong
Danger of Iran war getting stronger because of blindness, hypocrisy
Briefly: Join me tonight in watching ‘How the Grinch Stole Christmas’
Briefly: Christian writer Rachel Held Evans dies at 37
Briefly: Almost half of Americans now favor some form of socialism
Briefly: If a person constantly annoys you, it’s OK to cut him off
Briefly: Is it heroism or madness to stand against popular culture?
Briefly: I fear shallow ideas will soon destroy Western Civilization