It had begun with Festifall, as I suppose many awkward or inspiring freshman experiences do. I wandered through the chaos of tables and sweaty bodies and came across one of the University of Michigan’s book clubs. The people at the table enthusiastically handed me fliers and, somewhat desperately, suggested that I come to their mass meeting. There was no one else at their table, but the table directly to the right — a business fraternity advertising financial security by the time you were 22 — was mobbed by freshmen. The book club seemed to notice my attention on the mob and blurted out that there would be cupcakes at the mass meeting. Chocolate cupcakes. I uttered a non-committal assurance. It must have been more than other people had offered because as I drifted away, they called after me to bring reading suggestions.
One day a week later, while eating yet another meal alone in the South Quad dining hall, I decided that I would attend the mass meeting. I hadn’t been added to my floor’s group chat and everyone in my classes already seemed to have found a partner to work with. The University’s book club offered what I hadn’t yet found — friends. It seemed entirely possible that this is where I would find lifelong friends who were as equally inspired by the writing style of Simone de Beauvoir.
The meeting began with brief and awkward introductions that revolved around freshmen randomly assigning themselves to a major that would undoubtedly change in the next four years. We then turned to the important task of picking that semester’s book. The first person proposed “The Hunger Games.” The second person proposed “A Court of Thorns and Roses.” I would be one of the last to provide a suggestion, so I had ample time to realize that of the books I had come prepared to suggest, none seemed a suitable offering.
How could I propose reading “The Master and Margarita” when the last few books mentioned revolved around fairies and overused love tropes? I had first read “The Master and Margarita” with a group of high school friends and had found the magical realism completely engrossing. The book’s inclusion of a demonic talking cat had often reduced me to hysterics. Yet, these characters drastically differed from the human-fairy hybrids that the book club members recommended, and I suddenly wasn’t sure that I had the courage to share them.
I debated leaving to save myself the embarrassment of proposing a novel you’d find on an English course-reading list. But at this point, everyone was staring at me expectantly. I quietly shook my head.
My freshman year passed in a continuous state of readerly loneliness. I spent the following summer researching new potential clubs to join. During one night of tirelessly reloading Maize Pages and endlessly subscribing to email lists, I came across a student literary magazine. It advertised itself as a place that fosters the support of creative fiction, non-fiction and a variety of other mediums. I decided I would join. However, after never returning to my first book club and failing to find others to discuss Joan Didion with, I decided not to get my hopes up. I withheld the expectation that I would find lifelong friends.
At the first mass meeting of the year, I encountered a small group of students who seemed eager to participate while unabashedly expressing their affinity for the humanities. New members were invited to share the title of a favorite book. My heart dropped. This would be a deciding moment — a moment of reckoning, really. So far, the meeting had exceeded my expectations, but nothing would cause them to fall so quickly as the naming of books that I would not place on my own bookshelf. This time, I was the first to speak. I dove in head first with my love of literary fiction and chose to name “Tenth of December” by George Saunders. The room was silent. Then a girl across from me said that “Tenth of December” was also one of her favorite books.
I smiled for the first time at the meeting, a change which seemed to prompt the editor in chief of the magazine to ask me what I liked about the book. My smile immediately dropped as I stared blankly at her trying to construct a meaningful sentence that was more than “because it’s a book of really funny short stories.” Because it wasn’t just a book of funny stories. They were disturbing and unsettling and sometimes even profoundly sad.
But how could I share this sentiment in a few sentences when I could already see disinterest floating across people’s faces? I muttered something about the lyrical prose — a cop-out, generic answer that doesn’t generate further discussion. I had been, even if only for a few seconds, confronted by another person who knew a book that I loved. I wanted to impress her when I spoke about its meaning and felt ashamed when I couldn’t articulate the feelings the book stirred within me. We moved on. The next person said their favorite book was “The Hunger Games.” The person after that said “Divergent.”
By the end of sophomore year, I had not found a community that I could meet with to discuss contemporary and classical literature over brunch. However, I had come to accept that there were small moments of connection to be found with other readers on campus — like when I was at The Ann Arbor Coffee Roasting Company and the barista making my oat milk latte gushed over her love for “Franny and Zooey” after seeing me flip through its pages.
In the last weeks of the year, I came upon an outdoor library set up in the Diag. I quickly realized that it was not run by the University of Michigan. If it were, there would surely have been an egregious amount of maize and blue present. Rather, it had been organized by a group of students.
The bookshelves were hand-made and all of the books laid out had come from personal collections. I inspected the shelves and saw familiar titles. Titles that were on my own shelves and desk. These were the students I had been looking for, and hidden in their rooms were the books that I loved. Throughout my time at the University, I had struggled to find such a group of students. However, being confronted with their presence in the Diag, I realized that it was not that they did not exist but that they did not exist in critical masses.
**
For me, reading non-classics offered an escape from the titles on required reading lists when I was in high school. When I became frustrated with the close reading skills we were supposed to practice, I picked up books such as “Red, White & Royal Blue” or “Romantic Comedy.” These titles would never be found inside the classroom of my high school English class. Their descriptions of royal dinner parties and cross country drives would not have been deemed “analysis worthy.” Yet, such scenes were exactly what my fatigued mind needed in order to break away from the drudgery of annotating my school books.
As much as I love these “pleasure” reads, there is much value to be found in the independent study of classical literature. Oftentimes in the classroom, there seems to be a “correct” answer. Teachers can make us feel as though there is a specific way to read a classic novel, but when we find these books on our own, we have the opportunity to find something unique in them for ourselves.
The question is then raised about how classics might best be read and how to foster the growth of communities that value reading these novels in a less traditional and regimented environment. When I have the opportunity to share my love of the classics, I am not able to do so. I think that I have been worried people will associate my reading tastes with the conventional way books are often taught in high school classes. I fear that they will dismiss these books based on the experiences that they have had in classrooms, understandably so. And as an individual, I feel that I do not have the authority to convince them otherwise. Why would my opinion carry weight? This is why the stakes felt so high when I wanted to explain the meaning of “Tenth of December” and when I debated recommending “The Master and Margarita” at the university’s book club meeting.
Coming across the Diag library was a relief because it became evident that there were others who also read classics in their downtime. However, it was also a reckoning; I had convinced myself that such readers didn’t exist simply because I hadn’t found them yet.
**
I didn’t get the contact information of the students running the library. I quietly left a book and took a collection of Hemingway’s stories away with me. But I walked away without the emptiness that had accompanied my other encounters with the campus reading culture.
In order to foster the individual and communal reading of classics, I was going to have to take a more active approach. But, armed with the knowledge that others who also love these books are out there, I feel less alone. It suddenly feels more possible to connect with other like-minded readers and, once such a network is formed, encourage others to join. My experience with the reading culture at the University is not over; I just have to be willing to turn a new page.
Statement Columnist Olivia Kane can be reached at ohkane@umich.edu