Written by: Elijah Polance
Even though summer is a ways off, lately I’ve been thinking about the summer reading I was required to do in high school for English classes. What was the bane of existence for some was enjoyable for me, and I didn’t mind adding the few extra books to my summer literary itinerary (it’s no wonder I became an English major).
I’ve also been considering how these books stack up against one another for me. It’s been years since I first experienced them, enough time for any frustration from their subsequent assignments to dissipate. While I haven’t returned to all of them for multiple readings, each book has been memorable in some way, either for their profound impact, how they serve as a specific example of a story element, or because of the meaningful conversations they’ve allowed me to have with others. Here’s a brief overview of the mandatory readings I had for English classes for those four summers, focusing more on my past and present reactions to their literary content than the begrudging work I had in tandem with the reads.
Of the small handful of summer books I’ve been assigned, J.D. Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye was the only one I read in my free time before needing to, if I recall correctly. It popped up for AP Lit in the summer preceding my senior year, and I was glad to see a recognizable classic in the curriculum.
I’m not sure if there’s a more divisive literary protagonist than Holden Caulfield, the 16-year-old boy who wanders New York City, desperate for connection after getting expelled from boarding school. While I find him exhausting to follow, I do sympathize and pity Holden because of the infrequent moments where he opens up about his problem-filled past. I can’t relate to his actions in the slightest, but I can admire his deep fear for change, something I think anyone in a transitional point in their life can appreciate. I don’t see The Catcher in the Rye as the pinnacle of fiction or anything, but it is something I’ve gotten a lot of meaning out of, especially when talking to anyone with strong feelings about the novel. I recall class discussions that were supposed to address the complexity of Holden’s character devolving into opinionated tirades in earnest defense or unforgiving contempt.
Funnily enough, Salinger’s novel bears some contextual similarities with Pete Hamill’s Snow in August — my summer reading for English in my sophomore year — which also follows a young boy navigating struggles in New York City in the late 1940s. But where Holden’s impulsivity and erratic narration drive his story, Michael Devlin, an 11-year-old Catholic boy, is much milder, with his innocent, impressionable eyes eagerly taking in everything around him. Devlin befriends Judah Hirsch, a rabbi and Czech refugee navigating antisemitism in the city following World War II.
It’s a heartfelt story, one that moved me then and would probably still elicit some emotion now. I also remember the writing being solid, especially with the scene-setting in the first few chapters and domineering description of hate crimes. But I don’t have many strong thoughts outside that, besides some complaints with the final chapter, which I constantly cite whenever a conversation about unexpected endings arises. I won’t spoil anything here, but there’s absolutely no way for anyone to predict the dramatic change that occurs.
Wes Moore’s nonfiction book, The Other Wes Moore: One Name, Two Fates — my summer read for AP Lang in my junior year — is one that hit strongly on my first read. The book follows the different trajectories of two real-life men named Wes Moore: the author, who found success in the military and academia and is now the governor of Maryland, and another man who faces life in prison after an armed robbery that resulted in the death of a police officer.
As you read, the back-and-forth perspectives heighten the tension surrounding pivotal life decisions, choices that could have easily made the two Wes Moore’s switch trajectories. But looking back, a lot of that power gets lost once you know the progression each men take and aren’t forced to see the chronology of their paths in relation to the other.
Ironically, I ended up with three books to read over the summer for my ninth-grade English class, the same number as what was required my next three summers combined. Twelve Angry Men, a television script by Reginald Rose, was something I expected to be boring based on the medium and seemingly dry topic of a jury in session for a murder trial. But I quickly changed my mind, appreciating its brevity and dynamic pacing. Who knew a deliberation between jurors could be so exciting? It’s been a few years, and I’d love to dive into this little world again, either through the script or its movie adaptation that I’ve never seen.
My least favorite summer read, and probably most unpopular opinion, deals with Paulo Coelho’s The Alchemist. The novel, first published in 1988, is one of the best-selling books of all time, and it’s not hard to see why. The Spanish shepherd Santiago’s journey from his sheltered home to the Egyptian pyramids in search for treasure, his destined “Personal Legend,” can resonate with anyone.
But I couldn’t get behind Santiago’s journey then, and I still can’t now. Throughout his quest, he faces a variety of challenges, including getting robbed early on and apprehension by tribal warriors, among other complications. Santiago eventually overcomes each obstacle by believing in his dream and defying fear, but his triumphs never felt earned to me.
Part of this stems from the fact that Santiago never seems to fully “fail,” he merely encounters setbacks. When he works through them, it feels like he passively takes in lessons and applies them without growing as a character, taking away any satisfaction from his victories. Even more frustrating is how plain a character Santiago is. He starts as an impressionable young adult, devoid of much personality beyond wanting to find his treasure — a vessel for strivers out there to see themselves in. Even when he gains confidence later on, he never feels like more than an allegory for readers to identify with.
For what it’s worth, I don’t hate The Alchemist (I appreciate the twist ending, which I won’t spoil here), but it’s hard for me to get as much out of it as others, including some of my high school friends who appreciated its message. The overembellished themes of personal belief, akin to religious faith, turns the novel into a personal guide I can’t get behind, though some of that might be my 21st-century pessimism speaking. Still, I’d like to return to Coelho’s world post-college graduation and see whether my opinion changes with a new perspective.
While my ninth-grade summer reading may have provided me with my least favorite summer read, it also introduced me to my favorite. I didn’t know it at the time, but John Knowles’ 1959 novel, A Separate Peace, would become one of my favorite books.
The plot isn’t anything crazy, revolving around teenage boys Gene and Phineas, both students at Devon School — a boarding school in New Hampshire — around the start of World War II. What seems like a wholesome friendship gets tested when Phineas’ charisma and athletic ability weigh on Gene, leading to a tragic incident. At the same time, the school community faces a mounting tension as the war escalates, and military service looms just beyond the boys’ imminent futures.
Some of my closest friends called the novel dreadfully boring when school started that fall, and in part, I agreed. After all, it could feel like just a bunch of boys existing in a close space with one another. It’s a much less dramatic concept than a war story would be, and it’s easy to question why Knowles would focus on such a seemingly random school during those trying times.
But something about Devon School and how it acted as a shield from the hostile outside world really sat with me. The school felt like a magical place, one filled with innocence in the fall where the story begins and becomes even more sacred when winter settles, and the war becomes more tangible. The school becomes a “separate peace” for the boys, even as they’re increasingly visited by recruiters and tasked with jobs like clearing snow from train tracks delivering military supplies. While most boys continue to function under the pressure, some break and are changed forever.
The near-magical protection of the school setting reminded me of Hogwarts in the early Harry Potter novels. Chasing that feeling inspired me to keep returning to the book, and my impression of it quickly changed.
Each time I read it again, I was enchanted by some element I didn’t realize before. Sometimes I would focus primarily on understanding Gene, other times I would be swept away by Phineas’ whimsical aura that refuses to dissipate. In more recent reads, I’ve focused more on the subtle interactions between side characters or took in the sensational seasonal detail (the novel really works as a fall, winter, and spring read all at once). And while Knowles has acknowledged and denied it, there’s a homoerotic subtext to Gene and Phineas’ relationship that’s hard to ignore and adds layers to nearly every interaction in the book.
Now, nearly seven years after first reading A Separate Peace, I can confidently say it’s among my favorite books, many strides away from my initial outlook of it being boring. Sometimes when I bring this fact up to others, I’m met with confusion from those who also had it assigned in high school and weren’t a fan. Whenever that happens, I try and urge the skeptic to read it again.
My summer reading experiences were probably more beneficial than most others, but I’m of the strong belief that anyone, even reluctant readers, can have experiences similar to mine with A Separate Peace with their own summer reading (or otherwise assigned books for school). There might be a mandated read out there that’ll knock you off your feet, but it’s just as likely that it’ll start with a slightly warm feeling that nags and persists before blooming into all-out adoration.