In Praise of Thick Books

One of my college English professors told the story of a British Shakespeare expert who carried a copy of The Riverside Shakespeare onto a plane. The plane was hijacked by a terrorist with a gun. The terrorist shot at the professor, who shielded his chest with the 1,923-page volume of Shakespeare. The bullet lodged in the book, and the professor lived to read another play.

While this story is no doubt apocryphal, it appeals to me as a fan of thick books. I worry, though, that budding authors might be hearing another message. I read this paraphrased advice for authors the other day: “Keep the message of your book simple, make sure it is ‘front-loaded,’ and keep your book short.” While this may be sound advice in the nonfiction market, it sounds like boring fiction to me. I don’t want a simple message or a short book. I want to be able to sink my teeth into a good book (well, not literally) and have it be part of my life for many, many days or even a few weeks.

My taste for long books began in third grade. Browsing the school library, I came across The Wild Donahues by Elisabeth Hamilton Friermood (208 pages). The novel covers the years leading up to the American Civil War. It explores issues around human slavery, the Underground Railroad, the mistreatment of Native Americans, crooked politicians, and exploitation and crime. Whew—that’s a lot for a third grader to take in. But it also features a romance and a mystery, and that is what I liked about it. I checked The Wild Donahues out so many times that the librarian finally told me I couldn’t have it anymore and made me read—gasp!—other books.

In middle school, the voluminous novels of Catherine Marshall caught my attention. I read and reread Christy (501 pages) and Julie (428 pages). My sister, eight years older, introduced me to the tombs of Taylor Caldwell. Although I read several of them, my favorite was the 816-page novel, Captains and the Kings. Of course, reading Gone with the Wind (1,472 pages) was a sort of rite of passage at the time. My middle school pals and I mooned over Rhett Butler, thought Ashley Wilkes was way too milk-toast, and wanted to be Scarlett, even though she was, perhaps, the OG Mean Girl.

In high school, Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand (1,088 pages) consumed some of my leisure time, and then I entered college, where reading “big books” was the norm. When I took a full load of credit hours, I devoured about 400 pages every two days. Through six-and-a-half years and two degrees, I remained undaunted by the work, plowing through the lengthy writings of Charles Dickens, George Eliot, James Fenimore Cooper, and the Russian and French novelists. I have to admit, though, that The Brothers Karamazov (1,056 pages) tested my endurance.

Now well past those days, I still like the looks and heft of a thick book. I enjoy choosing a book that I know will fill my reading hours for some time. The gripping complications, the intricate descriptions of setting, and the in-depth character development that is allowed in so many words keep me long entertained. Margaret Atwood, whose works force the reader to jump, skip, and hop through time and imagination, is a perennial choice. The Blind Assassin (544 pages) and The Robber Bride (546 pages) are two of my favorites. I find satisfaction in the amount of shelf space that the 800+ page historical works of Margaret George take up on my bookshelves. Diane Setterfield’s Once Upon a River (480 pages) offers both the character-heavy intrigue of Dickens as well as some good, old Gothic horror. A book I read almost yearly is All the Rivers Run (534 pages) by Nancy Cato. Her descriptions of Australia’s Murray River are some of the most beautiful I’ve encountered.

I’m not sure that any of my weighty literary choices will ever stop a bullet, but I’m pretty sure that reading thick books has saved my life—probably more than once.

Photo Credit: Laurie Marr Wasmund, photo of a well-loved The Riverside Shakespeare that saw her through several classes in Shakespeare but never stopped a speeding bullet