After Christmas is over, and the sunrises start getting earlier and the sunsets later in the Northern Hemisphere, there are still two months of scarce daylight and lowering skies ahead. Here’s a suggestion for how to fill the gloomy hours with uplift: read.

Read some great books, returning perhaps to those you ploughed through on school assignments so many years ago. Discover one of the pleasures of aging — how serious books turn out to be more interesting and enriching than what you remember from dutifully ploughing through them years ago.

Sit in a comfortable chair, turn off the television, remove distracting earbuds, leave your smartphones and tablets charging quietly on a desk, and resist the temptation to check your messages one more time. Open up a book and give yourself uninterrupted hours to become immersed in a world created by a great writer many years ago.

I’ve been following this advice the last couple of winters, after I started reflecting on how, despite being in two serious book groups, I was spending too much time reading ephemeral stuff and wasn’t reading anything serious beyond some excellent book group selections. 

I decided to concentrate my reading on weekends, spending long hours interrupted by little but leg-stretching and avoiding the difficulty of recalling the plot when reading just a chapter or two in the evenings just before bed.

“All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way,” Leo Tolstoy wrote in the opening words of “Anna Karenina.” So I began with two books about families: Fyodor Dostoevsky’s “The Brothers Karamazov” and Thomas Mann’s “Buddenbrooks.”

“Karamazov,” I had read as a teenager, around the time the Hollywood movie version was released. “Buddenbrooks,” I went through two decades ago. Reading them as an adult was a far richer experience, both emotionally and as a contrast in national character. 

The two books are set at opposite ends of the Baltic Sea: the German book at the orderly commercial Hanseatic port of Lubeck, the Russian at a town resembling Dostoevsky’s ramshackle provincial hometown of Staraya Russa.

For last winter, I recalled Ernest Hemingway’s comment that “All American literature comes from one book by Mark Twain called ‘Huckleberry Finn.'” I remembered it as the sequel to “The Adventures of Tom Sawyer” and the story of a pleasant picaresque journey, and, of course, I had often heard how it was banned from school reading lists because of its frequent use of the N-word.

What I wasn’t prepared for was, first, the book’s scathing denunciation, veiled as humor or just everyday observation, of slavery. It was published in 1884, less than a decade after the nation basically abandoned Reconstruction and its noble goal of achieving equal rights for black people.  Reading it first as a teenager, I also didn’t remember the story of a boy becoming a man, mentored by Jim, the slave to whom he initially condescends and once nearly betrays.

I paired it with two other books of adolescent boys on picturesque but perilous journeys: Robert Louis Stevenson’s “Treasure Island,” written as a boys’ book that I read as a seventh grader in a boys’ school, and Rudyard Kipling’s “Kim,” set in British India. Both are stirring narratives, set in exotic locations which are easier to envision if you’ve done some tourism in the Caribbean and the subcontinent.

Were they both influenced by “Huckleberry Finn”? Maybe. Stevenson and Kipling, 15 and 30 years younger, respectively, than Twain, each dropped in on him on cross-country American trips and were received warmly, and each of them and Twain became mutual admirers. There was more contact between American and British writers in the late 19th century than I would have guessed — and a readiness by at least some Brits in admiring Twain as a model.

This year, with fellow members of a book group, I have spent dark afternoons and long evenings on the 767 pages of Anthony Trollope’s “The Way We Live Now.” It was written in five months in 1873 and centered on a fabulously wealthy but crooked financier, and it features the author’s characteristically vivid female characters contemplating bad choices in marriage.

I plan on soon rereading, after three or four decades, Honore de Balzac’s “Lost Illusions,” also with a dubious financier in the background. Both books also have delicious descriptions of businesses the authors knew firsthand, publishing and journalism.

Trollope shows an untalented female author trying to arrange, with editors of major publications, favorable reviews of her dreadful books. One ends up proposing marriage and advising her not to write a second novel. Balzac shows the young protagonist’s sudden success as a scandal-mongering journalist in Paris, and then being disgraced when it’s discovered that his sources are fictitious.

Unhappy families in provincial, perilous journeys in picturesque territory, financial and literary scandals in booming capitals: Great writers of the past take us to places and introduce us to people who, despite having been imagined years ago, turn out to be vaguely familiar to what we see around us now. And they’re readily available: Just sit down with a volume in hand in a comfortable chair. In the meantime, happy New Year.

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