Mary Shelley, creator of “Frankenstein” — Victor Frankenstein was the scientist, not the monster, for the last time — once remarked that the function of the Sublime is to persuade us to abandon easier pleasures for more difficult ones. Literary critic Harold Bloom revived this idea, and eloquently phrased it, “The function of the Sublime is to end the slavery of pleasure.”

What Bloom and Shelley mean by “the Sublime” is “literary sublime” or “great writing.” The purpose of great writing is to challenge us as readers to grab our attention and lead us on a journey toward true aesthetic value. This pursuit is our greatest endeavor, placing one higher into a realm outside of one’s own self. Reading great literature — and, if you have what it takes, writing great literature — is the expression of the human spirit and the provocative ecstasy of the soul.

Certainly, various naysayers of the various social causes will rise to protest this ideal, which I am not wholly sure is a healthy reaction. Any lover of great writing would get squeamish at the idea of conforming great writing to social causes. The sublime is at once applicable and acquirable to all. The appetite for the great literary pleasures should not be confused with the thirst for justice … it is a universal undertaking all at once.

We are, each one of us, dying. Sadly, a few of us are dying faster than others and we all must make a choice. How will you spend your time here on Earth? Most of us seek the fulfillment of the soul — transcendence above our lowly selves — so why not indulge in the Sublime as a means of understanding yourself, and, as Bloom puts it, a way of enduring the ultimate confrontation with our mortality.

Shelley’s remark poignantly seeps into the minds now enslaved by the endless cyclicality of modern pleasures — video games, Youtube, TV shows, etc. Indeed, the triggers of dopamine will stamp down any chance of escaping from the “easy pleasures,” all in the name of capitalism.

I too regularly catch myself participating in wasteful activities that have no worth across the arch of my life. I used to be addicted to video games, which sucked my attention into a vacuum realm where time is irrelevant and the mind remains aloof, rotting away until sleep deprivation takes control. Reading great literature saved me from that infinitely virtual world.

Now as an obsessive bibliophile — I am utterly miserable when I must surrender a book to a desperate borrower — I consider myself a transformative character in the likeness of Ovid’s Metamorphoses. Whereas once I was narcissus, a pitifully self-indulgent addict, I now have become Echo, desperately calling out to those stuck in the narcissistic trap of simple pleasures.

When encouraging my fellows in a quest for knowledge, I’ve often received the pejorative “Ivory Tower” comment, but I only seek to provoke a sense of yearning that exists in each and every one of us, a sense that seems to never be filled.

It’s on the tip of everyone’s tongue, but no one quite feels it within their authority to protest the degradation of “great reading.” Readers read for entertainment and writers deliver the satisfaction. Why is this acceptable? As readers we don’t demand more from our writers. Instead, we are all lemmings scavenging for the next book series that is fated for movie adaptation. Echoing Harold Bloom, it is perfectly acceptable for one to “get into” reading by starting off with the Harry Potter series — Lewis Carroll would be even better — and we should feel a sense of laziness or remorse for staying at that level of reading.

A return to reading well, as opposed to reading poorly, could end the trap we’ve all fallen into. Great reading is a higher form of entertainment, challenging the way we view the world, and giving pause for us to reconsider our lifestyles, our perspectives, and our morals.

I once wrote that bad experiences with books too often create unnecessary animosities toward literature. The perception of boringness is confirmed with one bad read, encouraging no further attempts to experience the aesthetic value of great writing. Bewildered, classicists are now clamoring to indict someone or something, and perhaps some fingers can be pointed at the advent of the Internet. Perhaps others can point to the change in culture, and maybe, please excuse my unbearable elitism here, too many forms of entertainment that satisfy the craving for immediacy exist.

I overcame my addiction and now I possess many classics, each a different manifestation of the Sublime, replacing the shelves of video games. Although some works are indisputably “greater” than others — placing Shakespeare, Cervantes, and Proust among the higher echelons — they all share endurance.

The endurance of the Sublime is conflicting for someone like me. It seems as if the most important questions have already been asked and some answered. The writers and thinkers of today are desperately trying to scrape away the leftovers of those before them, striving for something they can call original. In many cases, the attempt is in vain. This scares me.

But this gives me all the more reason to indulge in the Sublime. Which questions, if any, haven’t been asked yet? Which questions haven’t been answered? I want to participate in the greatest conversations ever had. I yearn to contribute to those conversations. This pursuit yields a sharper understanding of myself — what’s worthwhile.