There are two kinds of people sitting in your average high school English class: those who pretend they read the book, and those who pretend they understood it. Either way, something enchanting happens somewhere between the marathon of “one more chapter” and the end of the book: the books become mirrors and stop being solely about your fictional characters. So here it is—a lighthearted, unserious analysis of what your favorite classic says about you.
Romeo and Juliet: You treat period one AP Calc BC like solving for x is solving for ex. You are either a hopeless romantic or someone who thinks they are a hopeless romantic (and trust me, there’s a significant difference). You say you’d die for love—but most likely, all that means is winding up in your room for the weekend, listening to sad music when your crush cancels dinner plans. The only thing you’ve learned from Shakespeare is that your AP Physics lab partner is “the one.” At least until the bell rings.
1984: You whisper “doublethink” whenever someone says they like something you remotely dislike. You’re terrified every text is “thoughtcrime” and inconspicuously glare (well, you try to) at cameras like they don’t deserve to exist. You’d probably write “DOWN WITH BIG HOMEWORK” on the board if you weren’t afraid of imaginary surveillance. Bonus points if you’ve ever looked at your grades and muttered, “War is peace, freedom is slavery, ignorance is a B-plus in AP Chem.”
Frankenstein: You have trust issues with group projects because someone always goes rogue and creates a monster out of your shared Google Doc. You’re the type of person who stays up until 3 a.m. “just editing,” but is actually redoing your entire APUSH MCQ homework from scratch. You relate to both Frankenstein and the creature because you’re exhausted, overworked, and a bit lost. Every time Google Docs says “Anonymous Iguana is typing,” you swell with pride, knowing that someone else in your group cares enough to accompany you through the deepest of nights.
Their Eyes Were Watching God: You’re a poet and you do not know it—except you actually do know it. Because you post about it on Instagram. Every day. You write journal entries that start with, “I saw the way the sunlight hit my porch this morning, and for a moment, I understood Janie. I was Janie.” You overanalyze every conversation, and you believe love is supposed to feel like pears pregnant with sugar. This book is my absolute all-time favorite, but I swear I don’t act like this. Probably.
Beloved: You have memory problems, but not the type where you forget. The type where you can’t. Each time you forget to reply to a text, every time you can’t remember someone’s name, every “ghost” of a mistake lives rent-free in your mind. But you convince yourself it’s okay, because you understand that freedom isn’t something that happens miraculously overnight, that healing requires patience, and that often, the past just refuses to let go.
A Confederacy of Dunces: You say things like “bucolic” and “degeneracy” in casual conversation and get your feelings hurt when nobody claps. Your notes app is split between philosophical musings and grocery list items. You respect Ignatius’s intellect, just not his…everything else. This book was more than just funny to you because sadly, it was autobiographical.
Waiting for Godot: You’ve mastered the art of productive procrastination: doing absolutely nothing, but with purpose. You call staring at the wall for thirty-five minutes instead of practicing French past participles “existential reflection.” You find comfort in waiting for purpose. For meaning. For the weekend. When people ask what the play is about, you only say, “Everything and nothing.” (Which is a shame because I had to read this entire play last month for the sole purpose of writing less than 90 words in this segment of the article).
At the end of the day, some of us long for redemption like Amir, some long for love like Juliet, and some simply long for the bell. But maybe that’s the point of these books. I was once told that a book you love is an echo of something that lives within you. And I think that’s true.
