Recently, I’ve read books that prove this: Octavia E. However, I do feel comfortable assessing the quality of a text’s craft without needing to judge it exclusively on that element. Perhaps now, as a reader, I might be dismissed as being somewhat immature due to my continued preference for emotionality and catharsis rather than intricate linguistic beauty. I would have read those wild wolf slash dog books long before I understood the idea of “the canon”, back before I had educated myself as a reader and could engage with texts only on the level of plot. White Fang and The Call of the Wild are canonical novels, but though I feel like I’ve probably read at least one of them, it was definitely in the misty depths of time before puberty and what I would define as consciousness. Jack London is one of those American writers who most readers have heard of, who many readers have read but whose books haven’t really stood the critical test of time.
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