Photo via Pexels. There was a time when English literature was not just something people read. It was something people lived inside . A world of candlelit rooms and heavy curtains. Of rainy afternoons spent beside a window with a book in hand. Of quiet intelligence, careful speech, restrained emotion, and the kind of inner depth that modern life seems to have misplaced. English literature once carried a kind of dignity. Not the stiff, cold kind of dignity—but the kind that made you feel like you were in the presence of something timeless. Something worth slowing down for. Something worth respecting. And now? Now it feels like we live in a world that barely remembers it existed. It’s strange to realize that many people today have never heard of Jane Austen. Some might vaguely recognize the name, but couldn’t tell you what she wrote. Agatha Christie is reduced to “some old mystery author,” if she’s remembered at all. Arthur Conan Doyle is simply the creator of Sherlock Holmes...