365 Days of writing, 2026 – 133

Day 133 – Why certain books are famous

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Beyond the Syllabus: Are the Classics Still Worth the Hype?

If you were to walk into any high school English classroom in America, the odds are high that you’d find a copy of To Kill a Mockingbird or The Great Gatsby sitting on a desk. They are the twin pillars of the high school literary canon—books so cemented in our cultural consciousness that we often forget they were once just new novels written by fallible people.

But this ubiquity brings a modern question: Are these books actually deserving of their “Great American Novel” status, or have they simply become victims of relentless repetition?

The Case for the Classics

To understand why these books have stayed at the top of the pile for nearly a century, we have to look past the “assigned reading” label.

To Kill a Mockingbird: The Emotional Anchor

Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird is rarely praised for its narrative complexity; it is praised for its moral clarity. In Atticus Finch, Lee created the definitive archetype of the righteous outsider.

The book is “deservedly famous” because it serves as a masterclass in perspective. By filtering the ugly realities of systemic racism and injustice through the eyes of a child, Lee forces readers to confront the loss of innocence. It remains relevant not because it solved the problems of the American South, but because it captures the agonising gap between how we view ourselves and who we actually are. It is human-centric, empathetic, and—crucially—very easy to read, which has kept it in circulation for decades.

The Great Gatsby: The Mirror of Aspiration

F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby is a different beast entirely. Where Mockingbird is built on morality, Gatsby is built on atmosphere. It is, quite simply, one of the most beautifully written novels in the English language.

The prose shimmers with a kind of desperate glamour that perfectly encapsulates the “American Dream.” It is famous because it is a tragedy of scale—a critique of wealth, obsession, and the delusion that we can repeat the past. Every time economic inequality spikes or a new generation obsesses over the “hustle,” Gatsby feels freshly minted. It is the definitive autopsy of the American spirit.

The Argument for “Just That”

However, there is a valid counter-argument: Familiarity breeds fatigue.

When we label a book as “The Best,” we often create a self-fulfilling prophecy. Because these books are famous, they get taught. Because they get taught, they remain famous. This cycle can make them feel dusty, rigid, or exclusionary.

Critics often argue that these books dominate the conversation at the expense of more diverse, newer, or more challenging voices. Is The Great Gatsby the “best” book about the American experience, or is it just the one that happened to be selected by mid-century literary critics who looked, lived, and thought exactly like Fitzgerald?

If you are forced to dissect every sentence of Mockingbird for a grade, you are inevitably going to grow resentful of the prose. It’s hard to fall in love with a book when you’re being tested on its symbolism.

The Verdict: Are They Overrated?

The truth likely lies in the middle. These books are deservedly famous for their technical mastery and their ability to capture specific, enduring aspects of the human condition. They were influential for a reason, and their impact on the literary landscape is undeniable.

But they are also “just that”—they are just books. They aren’t sacred texts.

The best way to honour these classics is to stop treating them like homework. If you haven’t read Gatsby since you were sixteen, pick it up again as an adult; you might find that the tragedy feels much heavier when you realise you’re closer in age to the characters. If Mockingbird feels like a relic, read it alongside contemporary voices—like Jesmyn Ward or Colson Whitehead—who are expanding on the conversations Harper Lee started.

Ultimately, these books deserve their fame, but they shouldn’t be the end of your reading journey. They should be the starting point. The “Great American Novel” isn’t a static title; it’s a living, breathing conversation—and it’s a conversation that is still being written today.

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What I learned about writing – Is writing a solitary experience?

I can see how it is that a writer’s life can be a lonely one. That’s why, I guess, so many writers have an animal as a pet, someone to talk to, or just feel as though they are not alone in this quest.

I’m often sitting in front of the computer screen, or in a large lounge chair with my trusty tablet computer, writing the words, or staring into space!

Sometimes the words don’t make any sense, sometimes the thoughts leading to those words don’t make any sense.

Sometimes the most sensible person in the room is the cat.

I’m sure his thoughts are not vague or scrambled, or wrestling with the ploys of several stories on the go, getting locations right, getting characters to think and do their thing with a fair degree of continuity.

The cat’s world is one of which chair to lie on, where is that elusive mouse, be it real or otherwise, and is this fool going to feed me, and please, please, don’t let it be the lasagna. I am not that cat!

Unlike other professions, there is no 9 to 5, no overtime, no point where you can switch off and move into leisure time. Not while you are writing that next masterpiece. It’s a steady, sometimes frustrating slog where you can’t just walk away, have a great time, and come back and pick up where you left off.

Then there are those moments when you are staring off into space, contemplating the loneliness of it all.

Except you’re not.

There are what I call the sounds of silence, which, for some reason, are much easier to hear than during the daylight hours.

The bark of a dog.

The rustle of leaves in the trees.

The soft pattering of rain on the roof.

The sound of a train or truck horn from a long way away.

The sound of a truck using its brakes on the highway is also a long way away.

The sound of people talking in the street.

The thing is, you are never quite as alone as you might think or try to be.

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 132

Day 132 – Writing exercise

He had no reason to trust her

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The message said “Tropea Cafe, Russell Square, 10am, 4th”.

It just arrived on my cell phone, announced by a short vibration. Usually, my phone was in silent mode, which would have been the case if I had decided to remain truculent.

I was not happy about having to work with another agent, but I couldn’t argue with Harrigan, my handler, after the last mission went sideways.

His bosses were not pleased, so he wasn’t pleased. Harrigan hadn’t quite thrown me under the bus, but the difference between had and had not needed to be measured by a hair’s breadth.

The bollocking, he said, was necessary, ‘for appearances’ sake’, and that I had to ‘play the game’. He had never ‘played the game’, not as long as I’d known him.

Our successes had been measured by our unorthodox, sometimes maverick attitude in finding solutions to unsolvable problems. Before the last mission, he had said there was a new buzzword filtering through the corridors like a shockwave.

Transparency.

Politicians were getting nervous. They had started with ‘accountability’ and had struck ‘plausible deniability’ off their list of excuses.

Times were changing, and he agreed on behalf of both of us that for this mission, I would work with another agent. Without actually saying it, he said I was going to be monitored, and if my performance was in any way outside the ‘new’ operation parameters…well, he didn’t finish that sentence.

That was where he left me to draw my own conclusion. That holiday shack on Jamaica I had purchased five years ago, after my first major disaster, was looking like it was going to be my forever home sooner than I expected.

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Sitting on a park bench in Russell Square park with the Cafe in view, reading the Times and considering doing the cryptic crossword, I was caught up in nostalgia about why I was doing this job.

I was thinking about catching bad guys and fulfilling my promise to Annabelle, my sister, after she had been viciously assaulted.

It felt good to beat the living daylights out of each and every one of them and leave them in far worse shape than they left her. She recovered. They didn’t.

Then I enlisted. At a loose end, it was a choice between becoming a vigilante or something more worthwhile. Which is when, several years into my tour, Harrigan appeared and offered me a job.

Special training, special places, very nasty people, much worse than those I’d sorted for my sister. How he knew I didn’t ask.

That was how it began, and that was where I was now. Nearly twenty years, twice almost invalided out, lucky my retirement wasn’t like others, dying alone and all but forgotten.

Another message popped up on the screen. Dark blue dress and a red rose. How I would recognise her today. At the briefing, I had a photograph to memorise, but everything was different from mission to mission, so it was never that easy.

Like adversaries. Disguised. Like me. A chameleon.

She was late.

I should have got coffee in a takeaway cup.

…

“I got the train, and of course, signal failures.”

Gemma, the name in the file, a code name maybe as well as a first name, landed in the seat after I watched her approach me, rather than the other way around. She was supposed to go to the Cafe.

She came bearing gifts, a croissant and takeaway coffee. Black, no sugar. My preference.

This had Harrigan’s version of play nice written all over it.

“A man or woman dangling on the end of a rope about to die doesn’t want to know about signal failures when you’re late.”

That was my version of playing nice. I could see Harrigan in my mind’s eye saying I should have tried harder.

The file said she had been in the firm for three years, but she looked like she was just out of university, all brighter-eyed and full of paper knowledge.

Being in the field and ‘being in the field’ were two separate, mutually exclusive states. All would be revealed in the first shoot-out.

Her sideways glance was annoyance bordering on anger. But anger helped no one, and she left it on the shelf. “You’re right, I should have left earlier. I’m assuming you’ve been known to turn up late?”

“And cost a good soldier his life. You don’t forget the ones you lose.”

“I’ve yet to experience that.”

“You hope you don’t have to…” Lecture over.

There was a minute or so eating a croissant and sipping the coffee, this morning as bitter as I felt before a conversation realignment.

“Now, the rabbit hole we’re jumping into. Walk with me.”

She recognised the walls had ears, or in this case, the bushes. I might get to like her yet..

…

There was a difference between briefings in rooms and briefings in a park. One had a ton of backup paper files with those little things like details.

Parks relied on the imparter’s memories. Another thing I learned about memories is that they were selective, and the human brain may have the capacity to remember everything, but by its nature, it was selective.

Harrigan’s was very selective.

So was mine when it needed to be.

Gemma’s memory may have been excellent because there were details of the sort Harrigan rarely parted with until I needed to know.

The mission to begin with was simple, Gemma and I would be going to a Charity ball in three days, I as the CEO of an international Import/Export/Shipping organisation, one looking to help in shifting Goods and People around the world. Gemma was my Principal Private Secretary/Bodyguard. She promised she would scrub up well.

Then it was two solid days in research to get the back story right. Names, places, dates. The history of Bandellan, the 18th-century pirate turned merchant, turned shipping magnate, until today, couriers of everything on anything that moves.

Someone had called about a proposition.

That someone was going to be at the ball. They would find us.

It surprised me to learn I had been the descendant of a pirate for quite some time. And despite all the ‘nice’ things being said by Harrigan, my involvement in the project had pre-dated all of it.

It was when Gemma concluded her spiel that she said, “The world works in mysterious ways, but not in our world. You never know what’s going to happen next.”

I’m sure for her, in the three years in the field, it might feel like that, but for me, quite inexplicably, I knew exactly what to expect.

New boom, new transparency, old excuses swept away: nothing will change.

By the time the next stuff up reaches the top echelons of government, a dozen horrific deaths and the starting of a war will be ‘an unpredictable event saw a minor skirmish involving [name of country] government soldiers and civilians when testing weapons supplied in a five-point plan to provide unilateral aid. Her Majesty’s Government has been requested by the local authority to investigate the matter as a Commonwealth initiative.’

I’d met far too many Government Department Permanent Heads to know that nothing ever changes other than Ministerial rhetoric and the Minister.

Gemma was naive. She believed that there was going to be a new world order. What she didn’t realise was that it wouldn’t protect her when it came to apportioning blame, a blame is something that lands on our doorstep when things go wrong.

It was a simple mission. What could ho wrong

…

A limousine had been arranged. I had the gilt-edged invitations in my suit pocket, and Gemma had fussed over the dressing and all those things ladies talked about when you stepped into the room

“Are we having an affair?”

“With an employee. What sort of a shit-show organisation are you running?”

Not this one, imaginary or otherwise. Good to know, because like it on not, everyone there will be judging. The answer would be no, but people liked to think otherwise.

I’d seen her dress. The Limo comes to me, then we collect her. I said she could change at my place, she said she had seen pictures of my place.

It, to me, was perfect and functional.

She didn’t say I could come to her place, and to me that was a red flag.

I simply dressed and went over to her place. I was going to wait downstairs outside the car for her to come down.

She asked me to come up.

The concierge, yes, you heard right, took me to the elevator, selected the floor, and saved his magic card. It whisked me silently and quickly to the 20th Floor of the Canary Wharf building. I stepped out and immediately had a view of the Thames, and that once with the infamous docklands.

He escorted me to her front door, a brightly lit foyer with realist sculptures, the walls very realistic forgeries of the masters. The tiles were expensive as you’d expect.

The door itself was a work of art, and each in the floor had a different colour.

If this was hers, she was way above my tax bracket. If it were a relative or parent, then why had nothing turned up in an identity check? No, I don’t trust anything I’m given about work colleagues.

With targets, I took the research and did my own. It was amazing what I found; they didn’t

A girl in a maid’s uniform opened the door, greeted the concierge, sent him back to the ground floor, ushered me in and went towards the back of the apartment.

A voice yelled out from somewhere,” I’m nearly done. Take in the view, while I take care of the tiara.”

The tiara? We were not going to a princess’s wedding, instead?

“Too much?” I asked.

“They asked me to have an identifying item. It’s nothing to write home about.”

“Except the hostess might…”

“Get upset? Doubtful. She’ll be wearing a diamond necklace that the Royal Family rejected. It’s as priceless as the crown jewels.”

“There’ll be security all over, even in the cracks of the wood.”

“Of course.” She came out, and just looking at her was enough, and trying not to notice would be impossible. She would outshine most of those who will be attending. And attract unwanted attention.

Maybe.

The maid helped her with a pristine white, I hope, fake fur coat and escorted her down to the car. She waved to the security desk, and they all complimented her.

“You live here?” I asked as we glided across the foyer.

“No.”

“Then…?”

“My father’s apartment for his mistress. She died, so it just sits here. It’s closer to the ball than the place. And there’s a host of dresses and stuff I could otherwise never afford.”

A thought. Was the mistress and the daughter the same size, and dare I think it, the same age.

The concierge opened the door, and we crossed out into the cold night air. It was crisp enough to shock. I hadn’t worn an overcoat; I didn’t think I’d need one.

We arrived at the venue, the Grosvenor Hotel in Park Lane. I’d never seen it, but I had heard of it. I thought about staying there, but a one-bedroom suite was slightly out of my price bracket.

It amused me that I was so much as walking inside any part of the Grosvenor. She did not have the same expression of awe.

We were greeted by the organising committee of the Charity, welcomed into the fold as first-time donors. Harrigan had put up a hundred thousand for the tickets, and later there was bidding on ‘items’. He suggested it was National secrets, stolen artefacts and art, and novelty items.

He would. It was more likely attic gems from the old houses of the older rich.

We mingled.

Small talk in between, making educated guesses as to who our contact was.

And, I had to ask, “Is your family wealthy?”

At least one of them was.

She treated that question with the disdain it deserved.

I was also watching out for people I used to work with. Harrigan would not want to take the risk of running a mission in the echelons of power, people who could personally phone the Prime Minister, or the Queen directly.

Given the guest list, I had thought she might turn up, but it was too soon after Prince Phillip’s death..

Because Gemma took a lot of sunshine from the collective female ensemble, she got the stares, appreciative and otherwise, I got the questions.

Most of the guests would not have heard of us; the head office was in Monaco with offices in Geneva, New York, London, Naples, Marseilles and Port Said. Coincidentally, the offices were located for our division.

Dusty and unapproachable, until you get past the big steel door. If you were not expected, or didn’t match a photo, you were shot dead in the doorway.

It was the first question I was asked. Where had I been hiding? Simple. Europe.

Where were we now? Staying in Florence, on a tour of Italian church’s after having out curiosity fed by the Sistine Chapel and the Vatican. The aesthetic not the religion per see.

For publicity of the sort that would interest any prospective suitors, we dropped about a million Euros the first night of won back slightly more the following. It didn’t make the papers, but the ears for which it was intended.

I had a short list of prospects, and while we mingled I check where they were, who they were with and where they fitted in the Industrial, Commercial, or Financial landscape.

Or perhaps Philanthropy, though you needed the backing of one of the others. There was a few of them here as well

I might have been dressed for the occasion, but I felt I didn’t fit, Gemma said it showed. All the better for our cover, if I was viewed as shy, or quiet, the wealth would come across as inherited and not earned and therefore a target to be exploited.

I did not expect to be approached by a woman. She had been watching and waiting until I was alone, in a small group, Gemma had her attention diverted by a familiar face to both of us.

“Rupert Bandellan?”

She came up behind me, but not out of nowhere. She stood out because she didn’t stand out. Gemma had noticed her first, because women understand women’s motivations.

I had seen the woman’s companion shortly after Gwmma picked her out. And looked both devilishly handsome and thoroughly evil at the same time. I didn’t doubt she could take him if she had to.

“I am he.”

My mother had a touch of Italian in her, and my father was Russian. It gave me the gift of two other languages and English, which could be accented either way if needed.

“You fascinate me. Descendant of a buccaneer, silently moving in the highest echelons of power and wealth, and yet relatively unknown. Not many here know of you or your organisation.”

“The people who matter do.”

“Pleased to hear it. Do you have a name?”

“Elizabeth.”

“Like the Queen, without a surname.” I smiled, charming but an irritation, I wasn’t going to make it easy for her. “What can I do for you?”

“Not talk business, I’m afraid. We are curious about your personal secretary. We think, that is to say, I think she must be more than that, a mistress perhaps?”

“If I were married, perhaps she would be, but I am not. What is the fascination with Arabella?”

“I have seen her before somewhere.,

“She is English. You are English. She lived here for 32 years before coming to work with me in Geneva.
It’s not that large a city that you have not run into each other once or twice over the years.”

“And yet not you.”

‘I don’t believe I’m English, just that I speak it well enough and went to Oxford because my father thought I should.”

“Are you in a relationship?”

“A good question. I have several women friends, but I don’t believe any one in particular would regard me as their boyfriend. But, given the nature of my business, I don’t believe I have the time to devote to anyone in the manner they would like. As my father used to say, a business does not run itself.”

And then I got it. Elizabeth was a journalist. The questions were of interest to the ladies her publication catered to. High-end, no doubt. I know that research has planted a few rather dubious stories about me in the lower end of the magazine scale, the ones where rich people mess up and find photos of themselves they don’t want published.

When I read them, even I thought I was a scoundrel.
.
“I would like to do a formal interview with you, on the ‘Margaitte’ if possible. I think you have a story to tell, with the pirate thing. I hear you have your annual bash coming up in Cannes.”

“Invitation only.”

“Then I shall look forward to receiving mine.”

Perhaps I might, if Harrigan let us, but I rather think he would not. This was already out of hand on the expenditure scale.

Gemma circled around with the man who had hijacked her from the dance floor. And i would out my money on him as the contact? Though not necessarily the guy we were looking for.

“This is Jake.”

She introduced the man in a five-thousand-dollar suit and a slippery smile that went nowhere.

The middle man. I didn’t think it would be that easy to meet up with the contact in circumstances such as those. Shady people rarely conducted their business in such an environment.

Gemma handed me a card.

There was a name and a cell number.

The name was Brian Mongonery Clarke.

The middleman gave me an untraceable cell phone with one number in it, the same as that on the card.

I rang the number.

A man with an old voice said, “Am I speaking to Rupert Bandellan?”

“You are. People are using my name a lot. Have I become popular and someone forgot to tell me?”

“I’m sure you try damnably hard not to become popular, Rupert,”

“I’m sure you’re right. To whom am I speaking?”

“The name on the card.”

“Hmm. I’m going to hang up now, and don’t call me back until you find out what your real name is.”

“I deal in secrecy.”

“I deal in transparency, particularly with my clients. Take it or leave it.”

A few seconds of silence, then, “It is Walter Sandstrom.”

“So, Walter Sandstrom, what can I do for you?”

“9am, Monday, in the American Airlines first class lounge at JFK. I have a proposition you will like.”

“Then I shall see you at the airport. After we do our due diligence.”

“As you wish.”

He hung up. I gave the man in the suit his phone and the card and he disappeared.

It left Gemma and me looking at each other.

“That was easy,” she said.

Too easy, I thought.

Then the lights went out.