The Red and the Black: Why We Read the Classics

The Red and the Black: Why We Read the Classics

Time flies. In the long river of time, a human life lasts only for an instant. The current of passing years carries away nearly every trace that can be carried away, leaving behind only a very small number of things that stand firm like rock—things that remain upright and undying even under the merciless erosion of time. These are what we call classics: in literature, in music, and in the world of light and shadow.

The Red and the Black is one of these enduring classics. It tells a story that remains widely told even today: how the ordinary son of a carpenter climbs step by step from the bottom of society, and then, from the height of his life, falls all the way down into complete ruin. On the surface, there seems to be nothing especially unusual about such a story. Times keep changing, but similar stories repeat themselves in every era and every place. Even today, they are constantly being played out around us. I believe that in every age, there have always been people telling stories like this. So why is it that only this one became a classic? And why is it that we, centuries later, still return to the classics again and again?

For a novel, the plot summary is not what matters most. Perhaps a single sentence can sketch the outline of a novel, but that means very little to the novel itself. Even the same story can feel entirely different depending on who tells it. To narrow the point even further, even the same book can feel very different in different translations. Storytelling itself is an art. Like the great classical composers, a novelist must have patience—the ability to unfold things slowly and without haste. They must have attentiveness—a sensitivity to every subtle detail, so that their words do not become empty. They must know life, so that readers can feel fully immersed. And they must possess insight, so that their understanding of life can be woven into the text. A writer may tell a hundred different stories, but the true essence of what they can tell is still only themselves. Possessing even one of the skills required for storytelling may be enough to make someone a good novelist. But only when all of these qualities are present together—along with a certain inexpressible spark—can a classic be created. So even from the standpoint of craft alone, the classics are worth reading again and again.

And yet the value of the classics goes far beyond technique. In every age and every profession, there are countless craftsmen who excel in technique, but not all of them become masters capable of creating classics. Skill can give a work a perfect exterior, but it alone cannot create a soul. And a work without a soul is like our bodies: in the end, it cannot be immortal. If a classic becomes a classic, what matters more, perhaps, is the soul within it.

Society changes constantly with the times, and every era has its own distinct features. Yet no matter how society changes or how technology develops, there are always certain things that remain unchanged for human beings. The emotions that make us human are the purest expression of human nature, and in any era they are the most precious of all. What allows a classic to touch the soul is precisely its ability to resonate with the deepest parts of our emotional lives. Whether a thousand years or a hundred years have passed, as long as humanity still exists, the central questions we face remain those of love and hatred, attachment and resentment—both toward ourselves and toward others. These things are not bound to any particular age. A painting, a piece of music, a novel—if it can move something in the deepest part of human feeling, then it can become a classic and transcend time.

As for drawing nourishment from a work, I have always felt that the novel is the slowest of mediums. A good novelist will never put on a stern face and lecture the reader. They simply present the world itself. They allow readers, within a highly convincing fictional world, to experience lives they themselves may never be able to live, and through those experiences gain different kinds of insight and understanding. By comparing those imagined lives with their own, readers may arrive at a broader and deeper experience of life, and from that draw their own reflections. But these reflections are not directly handed to the reader by the story, nor may the author have intended any explicit moral instruction. Life itself does not contain a single fixed lesson; each person draws their own truths from it. And so, what the classics offer us above all is this: different experiences of life and emotion. That, to me, is their greatest value.