Ioan Marc Jones, a Reading native, has lost his ability to read some of the best books ever written in less than a decade, surrounded by screens. But, inspired by the Guardian's 100 best novels list, he was determined to get it back. It is a privilege to be surrounded by books. My parents hail from the literary working class, a subsection of society that believes great works lead to a richer life. Reading for them was an inverted form of class snobbery. My dad could read as well as anyone. He'd prove it on package holidays, sitting on the balcony the entire time, head bowed, cigarette in hand, flicking through the pages of Jane Austen or Herman Melville. The only difference between my old man and an old Etonian was the drudgery of employment. To paraphrase Oscar Wilde: work is the bane of the reading class. As for my own reading life, my mum wore me down, shouting “Read a book!” any time I dared say I was bored. I soon capitulated. I was nudged towards the classics, defined by Italo Calvino as books people say they should “reread” because they’ve either read them or do not want to admit they have not. In my late teens and 20s, I worked my way through the greats. I fell in love with a woman called George and thought Middlemarch was magic. I was a smart lad, prone to bad decisions, unsure of my place in the world. It is perhaps no surprise that I identified with Dorothea. My appetite for classics receded along with my hairline. My early 30s gave way to the contemporary, to favourites such as Zadie Smith, Sally Rooney, Elena Ferrante, Roddy Doyle and Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. Then, a few weeks ago, I stumbled upon the Guardian’s new list of the 100 best novels. I