Last night, I started reading The Time Machine, published first in 1895, and was struck with H.G. Wells’ audacious choice to forgo proper names, referring to his characters as “the Time Traveller,” “the Psychologist,” “the Editor,” and so on. With difficulty, I tried imagining picking up a modern novel that made choices like that. There may be many who feel the choice an archaic one, removing too much of the necessary personality and detail from the story’s characters, turning them into nothing more than stereotypes. A fair argument. But I find it a bit exciting. Perhaps, it’s because it makes the story feel more like a fairy tale filled with impossible things.