A few days ago Don (of Mixolydian Mode) published a list of literature that he found comforting or "a nice escape." This followed from a post by Terry Teachout regarding literature he often retreated to. This got me to thinking and I decided to list work that I found strangely engaging and, indeed, comforting.
One of my selections agrees with Mr. Teachout (as I recall) the others are uniquely mine:
(1) The King James Version of the Bible, particularly Psalms and The Song of Solomon.
(2) Rex Stout (Mr. Teachout's choice)
(3) Henry James--particularly the short stories
(4) Agatha Christie (I can't explain it other than an early childhood attachment)
(5) Tom Sawyer (and only Tom among the works of Mr. Twain)
(6) My Antonia
(7) The works of Jack Vance and Clark Ashton Smith (sheer joyful playing with language)
(8) Dubliners most particularly the serenely frighteningly magnificent "The Dead"
(9) James Lee Burke--The stories disturb me but the masterful control of language and the atmosphere engage me.
(10) John Keats
(11) "The Tempest"
That's how I see the list right now. I'll need to do more thinking and try to understand what factors control these choices.
With all of them except Christie, part of the attraction and appeal is the deft handling of language. And even with Christie to some extent--her writing is rather flat, but predictable and comforting in the way of a Grandmother's stories.
Before you get the idea of some high-falutin' literateur, I should mention that I love the turns of Henry James's sentences and the constructions both of story arc and character in all of their convoluted neurotic glory. I don't claim any great understanding of true appreciation of his art.