"The Time Machine", by H.G. Wells

Many moons ago, I was mired in the long days of a high school career. Summer vacations were a splendor whose days were numbered, with the end of such allowances marching ever closer. Being a student of AP English meant one thing during these languorous stretches of free time -- summer reading lists. Filled with the names of tomes whose authors were long deceased, it was a dread for nearly every student. Lord knows how I suffered through the tortures of Great Expectations in the summer before my freshman year. Nothing but a no-fail cure for insomnia there. Another challenge faced in such a small town as ours was the availability of the books on the list. The local library was sure to have a copy or two, but it was also certain to be checked out on a constant basis if the title was a popular one. With the nearest bookstore hours away by car, one had to face a harsh reality as summer began to wane: A different book would have to be chosen from the list before time had run out. This is how I came to read The Time Machine by H.G. Wells in the space between my sophomore and junior years, in addition to the ever-popular Romeo and Juliet.

During a dinner at the home of one known to the reader as the Time Traveller, the aforementioned character arrives with much ado and excitement to relay the tales of his recent journey. He weaves such a tale of his trek through time, spanning all the way to the literal end of the Earth and back again. Along the way, he has met many different people of various stations in life, experienced a crushing loss, and encountered many things the likes of which the people of his own time could hardly even dare to dream. He learned of an eventual split of the human race into a veritable caste system, one which persisted for millenia. He fostered relationships with the people he met, some to good ends and some to bad ends. These travels have impressed so much into his psyche that, upon his return to the Victorian era, he finds himself a drastically changed man. His is now a haggard and careworn sense of self after everything he endured, and his recounting of the many things he experienced leaves those in his party speechless and disbelieving. The traveler then vanishes a day later, never to return.

I found myself so swept up in his story that I flew through the pages with abandon, desperate to find out what would happen next. It was easily the greatest of all of the assigned reading I ever attempted, with perhaps Night by the late Elie Wiesel being the only exception. I wouldn't exactly call this an easy read, since the language of Wells' time doesn't quite sync up with our own in a way that fosters immediate understanding. But once you clap on to the vagaries of these differences, the book practically reads itself. It is a masterpiece, and one that I like to revisit as often as I can.

Rating: ★★★★★