Whenever I go to Borders, Barnes and Noble, or the small little closet of a bookstore in my hometown, I always try and find that unique book that no one has read yet… the novel that is hidden behind the Da Vinci Code or by the unknown author pressed between Jack Kerouac and Stephen King.

When I go to the bookstore, I never ever think of the classics. I always associate those books with school- starting from the 9th grade until the (very) recent past when we were slammed with “summer reading lists” and semester syllabi. I’d think of The Scarlet Letter and wince… or Little Women and start to yawn.

Then, I grew up. I began to realize how delicious and fabulous these classics were. I read all 1,500 pages of Gone With The Wind and found myself in awe that a writer of her time could come up with such literature. I actually found Vanity Fair funny. And I think I’ll reread The Awakening every year for the rest of my life just to see what else I can wring out from its pages. I’ve returned to the Ernest Hemingway exhibit at the JFK library (a place I first discovered on a field trip in 12th grade and never appreciated until my sophomore year of college) and reread his manuscripts, trying my best to dissect his psyche and decode his art.

And pardon the cliche, but I can’t get over how timeless these reads are. I’ve had conversations with my grandma about Edna Pontellier, and about how, if at all, things have changed for women. My mom rolled her eyes when she saw me reading Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar and said she did the exact same thing when she was my age (maybe every young woman does).

Anyway, that’s my little Hoo-Rah for the classics. Now excuse me, I have a date with Bernard Shaw.