As somebody like myself, an obvious bibliophile, looks back on a lifetime of reading—around forty-seven years if I began with age-appropriate material when I was five or so!—it is interesting to note what I have not read. Here is a small sampling—with the stress on small. There are many others I could note! I have not read John Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress—cannot warm up to the notion of allegory. I have read very little of the Russians like Dostoevsky or Tolstoy, though I do like Solzhenitsyn.
I have hardly touched Aquinas or the late Patristic author John of Damascus.
And as for the Germans of the 20th century like Tillich (ugh!) or Moltmann or Pannenberg, I have read very little. I have read Bonhoeffer—whom I deeply admire despite some evident doctrinal flaws in his thinking—I have read through some Barth and Brunner. Of Bultmann I have only touched his commentary on the Johannine Epistles.
I am amazed I have not really read Van Til, or Bahnsen or Rushdoony.
So many books, so little time was what C.S. Lewis once said, or something like that.