A Note to the "Old-School Lit Purists" Who Think You Can't Read Unless You Can Decipher Obsolete Ramblings
Dearest Guardians of the Dusty Pages,
Well, well, well. It seems we’ve found ourselves in the midst of a disagreement, haven’t we? A disagreement about what it truly means to read, to appreciate literature, and—most importantly—to understand what is being said. You see, I’ve been hearing whispers (and not-so-whispered rants) from those who insist that if you can’t decipher the labyrinthine language of centuries-old tomes, you’re somehow lesser when it comes to reading.
How quaint.
First off, let’s get something straight, shall we? Just because you can read words written in a style that is, at best, a historical artifact of convoluted prose, doesn’t mean that you’ve unlocked some higher level of enlightenment. Darling, it just means you’ve memorized a style of writing that no one actually uses anymore, and you’re clinging to it like a dusty old mantle of superiority. Congratulations, I suppose?
But here’s the thing—understanding old literature isn’t about making every reader slave to the way it was written in a time before we even had common decency in sentence structure. No, no. It's about the message. It’s about the emotions, the ideas, and—dare I say—the beauty of the words. If that message can still resonate in the present day, then who cares how it's said?
Let me break it down for you in a way even the most condescending, archaic critic might understand:
If you’re holding up “old-school” literature as the only legitimate form of reading, you’re basically saying that only those who speak in thou’s, hast’s, and art’s deserve to understand the great works of the past. But here's the kicker: If the meaning behind the words can’t be passed on and understood today, then what good is it? Is the whole point of literature not to connect, to inspire, and to make people feel something now?
Now, don’t get me wrong—I love a good classic as much as the next reader, and I appreciate the beauty of the language of the past. But suggesting that someone who doesn’t understand a six-page-long sentence with a semicolon clause the size of a small village isn’t a real reader? Oh, sweetie. That’s just precious.
To imply that those who prefer accessible, modern renditions of classic works are somehow “beneath” you is, frankly, ridiculous. Just because someone chooses to read something in a way that doesn’t require an advanced degree in Victorian linguistics doesn’t mean they can’t read. It just means they’ve got a life to live and would prefer not to lose it to an obscure reference to a historical event that no longer serves their reality.
And for those who think that understanding the “ramblings of the past” automatically makes you some literary god? Darling, please—I’ll take clarity, relatability, and a bit of fun any day over a convoluted mess of outdated syntax and ancient phrases that make my head spin. It’s not the difficulty of a work that makes it worthwhile—it’s the impact it leaves. And if that impact can be better delivered by a modern reimagination, then so be it.
So, to all the purists shaking their literary fists at the “new generation” of readers: You keep clutching your dusty books and your proud, “I understand all this antiquated nonsense!” But maybe, just maybe, let those of us who want to read without anachronistic anxiety enjoy the beauty of a good story without needing to translate it for the 21st century.
Because, at the end of the day, we’re all reading together, aren’t we? And if you ask me, that’s what really matters.
With all the sass and none of the snobbery,
– Alice
P.S. I’m sure those dusty old books would appreciate your loyalty—while you’re busy translating them, I’ll be over here reading, laughing, and enjoying myself. But you keep clutching those pearls, sweetie. It’s adorable.
