It takes a lot to make an English teacher to commit to the written word as being "perfect." Out of tens of thousands of essays I've graded in my career, I think I have given three perfect scores, possibly four. It's not because I'm so incredibly picky; it's just that there is almost always a way to improve a piece of writing. That is, if you aren't F. Scott Fitzgerald, Harper Lee, or Charlotte Bronte. There are three books that I have read almost every year for the last twenty years, even though I've only taught one of those more than a handful of times. They are my favorites, the standards by which I judge all books.
Jane Eyre is the only book of my favorites that I have never taught in any class. I don't know that I could encompass all of it, especially since I have no good touch with British lit, or even whether I could make it relevant for today's student. But what a multi-faceted jewel it is! There are such distinctly different sections, each with its own light to give off. Jane's childhood as an orphan raised by a cruel aunt-by-marriage is an exercise in humility and injustice. It would take a harder heart than mine to be unmoved by this little girl starving for love and finding only indifference; when Jane is locked up in a "haunted" bedroom and faints from terror, I feel every thrilling agony of her pain. When she is sent to a harsh but ultimately blessed education in a private school, I recognize the joy of discovering that there were others in the world like me. When she falls in love with the sophisticated but untamed Mr. Rochester---ahh, every girl knows that feeling. Her grief at coming close to happiness with him, only to have it snatched away by his secret (locked away under her very nose), is the same as any girl's grief at losing a great love. And each time I read it, when they are restored to one another by fate, I see the hope that all will be fine for each plain, lonely, lost girl who ever longed for just one great, true love. When Jane says, "Reader, I married him...," well, if you've been reading my blogs from the start, you may recognize that form of address. I have to confess that I copied Bronte every time I spoke to you, dear readers, directly. Forgive me the plagiarism and read the book if you have never taken the time. You'll be charmed as I am, each time.
There is one book that can instantly transport me back to my earliest childhood in Skedee, population not-very-darn-many, in the late 60's. No, To Kill a Mockingbird isn't set in that time---it's a good 30 years earlier---but in small-town Oklahoma, things run a few decades behind the times. The story of Scout was so familiar to me that I wrote a major personal reflective essay titled Me 'n' Scout for my Southern Women Writers course when I was completing my Master's degree. I have even refused to watch the film of the book because I can't stand the thought of changing the vision of it I have in my head: our own little white house, the older house across the street (gone now for decades), the neighbors with the terrifying shaggy black-and-white dog that used to chase me, our church, the ragged sidewalk, my beloved babysitter Theda Rae down the street.....so many pictures mixed up in my mind that it's sometimes hard to recall what happened in the book and what happened in my life. Sometimes, I almost convince myself that I lived next door to Boo Radley instead of Mr. and Mrs. Hayes, or that the rabid dog, Tim, was McMillan's crazy dog chasing me on my little red bicycle. I know it's a trick of my mind because I've read the book so many times, but I can almost feel like I'm revisiting my childhood by reading Mockingbird again---not a bad way to time travel.
But by far, because I teach it and my students come to love it, The Great Gatsby has the greatest hold on me. It has something for every part of my spirit: the pragmatist loves the historical setting; the romantic, the idea of an all-consuming love captured in vivid, poetic language; the realist, the totally believable but cruel fates of those who are powerless, crushed by love and lovers. It's the lyricism of the written word Fitzgerald paints his world with that has my heart, but Francis Ford Coppola's film is so beautifully executed and so faithful to the text that I have no problem sharing the book with my students that way---and they never fail to see the ironic beauty of the story, captured in such gorgeous detail on film. I still read it when I have them watch it, and I see something new every time, though I've read it dozens of times now. I have the latest movie version on DVD, but I haven't brought myself to watch it yet, fearing how it might corrupt my beloved Gatsby, the character, and Gatsby, the man.
No, these aren't the only books that I have an enduring love for. I could probably never convey the meaning that books have had in my life; it's the ONE area where I agree with the old (awful) platitude that "those who can't, teach," because I could never come within a thousand miles of writing anything as glorious as some single sentences from these greats. But I CAN teach and share the greats and pray that one day, someone with an equal craft might pass through my class on the way to writing a fourth great book to capture my undying affection.
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