The streets here in Stevenson Ranch are named after famous authors. While I like to consider myself a literate person, I have to admit that, with the exception of a few of those authors, I’ve never actually read their work. Hemingway and Fitzgerald, I know well. “The Great Gatsby” is imprinted in my brain, and I still think about reading Hemingway’s “A Moveable Feast” during a trip to Paris in my 20s.
And really, is there an American who hasn’t at least heard of “The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn” by Mark Twain?
Reading books is a modern invention of sorts — literacy only took off after Gutenberg’s printing press in 1440. Although I own a Kindle, I prefer physical books, which has led to some interesting conversations.
A music industry insider sitting next to me on a flight struck up a conversation because I was reading an autobiographical book about a notorious band. A young Spanish man came up to me at a beachfront cafe in southern Spain and wanted to talk about the Spanish Civil War because he noticed I was reading Orwell’s “Homage to Catalonia.”
Rather than reaching for one of the usual beach reads next summer, my first thought was to drive around Stevenson Ranch, making a list of the authors I haven’t read, and choosing a few of those authors for my summer reading.
But the obvious was staring me in the face.
I’ve never read anything by the author whose name is on the street that I live on, which I’ll leave you to guess. I’ve only seen a movie based on their most famous work. The old saying came to mind: “The movie was great, but the book was better.”
Philip Wasserman
Stevenson Ranch
