Read this a long time ago, but forgot much of it. A classic for sure.

Tom Sawyer is equally infuriating and relatable

I can't believe I never read this growing up! When my son came home with this novel as his summer reading homework, I decided I'd read it too. I found an old paperback copy of the book (1962) and persevered reading yellowed pages that fell out every time I opened the cover. I was rewarded by the story, though, and I can definitely see why it is considered a classic. I'm not sure why anyone would want to know what I thought of this book since it has been reviewed by scholars, but here's my two cents anyway.

I found Tom Sawyer to be the definitive example of "all boy", and Twain's voice in this novel is undeniable - the humorous asides, the omnicient narration - one can almost hear the voice-over in one's head. Yet, overlooking some of the terminology of the times, there is an almost timeless quality to Tom. Boys like this still exist today. I know because I've had some in my sixth grade classroom, and as I read Tom's adventure I couldn't help happily picturing those boys in my mind.

What I also noticed and appreciated were the various moods Twain conveys throughout the story. The most striking to me is the cave scene with Tom and Becky when the last candle burns out. The hopelessness, despair, even the darkness is almost palpable. That scene won me over, and made me overlook some of the chapters that I found to be less interesting and a lot like filler (the tick in the schoolhouse comes to mind).

Enjoyed the story and can't wait to read Huck Finn!

Mark Twain was a literary genius. I marveled at his vocabulary and brilliance of mind. However, Mark’s books are racist. And this particular book was a too histrionic for a tale of a poor boy growing into a man.

Makes me want to go to the nearest island, catch some fish, cook it over the fire and lay in the sun with a pipe

I’m impressed at how Twain can capture the essence of so many childhood experiences. Like the tone of Tom’s sulks:

“He knew that in her heart his aunt was on her knees to him, and he was morosely gratified by the consciousness of it. He would hang out no signals, he would take notice of none. He knew that a yearning glance fell upon him, now and then, through a film of tears, but he refused recognition of it. He pictured himself lying sick unto death and his aunt bending over him beseeching one little forgiving word, but he would turn his face to the wall, and die with that word unsaid. Ah, how would she feel then?”

But also his fickleness:

“But the elastic heart of youth cannot be compressed into one constrained shape long at a time.”

You can tell he was a sketch writer. He can write beautiful standalone chapters / paragraphs, even if the whole thing doesn’t quite string together as smoothly as you’d expect.