American Literature is enthralling. No matter how much steeped I may be in British Literature, I never tire of going back to my old school books and re-reading gems of American Literature. My choice of writers tends to be in accordance with my transitory frame of mind. At times I am engrossed in the writings of Edith Wharton, at other times the shadows of the Puritan Age appeals to me through the works of Nathaniel Hawthorne and Arthur Miller. Then there are times when Edgar Allan Poe dominates rainy evenings, not to mention Harper Lee whom I have read and re-read over and over again. The beauty of American Literature lies in both its light and darkness. There is a deep optimism in Wharton’s novels and stark darkness in Hawthorne’s or Poe’s. There is a flitting beauty in the poems of Robert Frost and yet Emily Dickinson tends to dominate us with her haunting words.

Having visited Massachusetts long ago (in the year 2014) and having had the good fortune of taking a tour through Emily Dickinson’s house, I have completely fallen in love with American Literature since then. There are others like Tennessee Williams, John Steinbeck, Herman Melville, and William Faulkner and last but not the least, Ernest Hemingway. There are innumerable of writers and poets that encapsulate American Literature. I can never get enough of them. However, the beauty lies in their diversity. And every writer/poet suits one mood of mine or another. It is like walking through an enchanted forest, looking at exotic trees and shrubs and finding comfort in their variety.

So much for now. I shall be back with a book review or two.

Au revoir!