Classical fiction

Once in every blue moon I read a book that reminds me there is a real difference between good fiction and classical fiction.  Not that I have any real credentials for deciding these things, but I have a great teacher who puts into words those thoughts rumbling around in my head like some kind of  stew that is rich and thick and robustly real.  I take notes:

This book is powerful and unblinking.  They never look away from the things that you normally look away from.

Its a reclamation of a disposable identity in so many ways: class, sexuality, family, race, gender.

Love can be completely intoxicating and make you forget yourself and your responsibilities.  It's like a fire that can cleanse you or destroy you.

Be careful how you love and why you love cuz it can envelop you -- and counter to what we've been taught about love's redemptive power.

I want to remember these words, these ways of saying what I felt, but couldn't put together so clearly.  I feel a kinship to someone who seemingly has little to do with me.  I internalize her feelings until I can taste them as clearly as that coppery iron taste that flows across my tongue when I have a nosebleed.  My body dredges up memories from a river of feelings so thick and deep the sludge overflows into my dreams.

This book was like a probe reaching down into me and touching nerve after nerve.  After all these years I am starting to understand the power of really good literature.