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 The language was outdated.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.

If voting really changed anything, governments would make it illegal
You always need enough money that you can quit when it’s time
Goodbye, Anne (2009-2019)
Briefly: Demeaning behavior by parents can lead kids to become bullies
Briefly: Artifacts from childhood can remind us where we came from
Briefly: Coach’s humanity toward defeated opponent shows best side of sports
Briefly: I didn’t make a mistake, but belief that I had been wrong cost me sleep
Briefly: Growing calls to abolish traditional family are serious threat from left