Reading this book is such a chore! I’m determined to finish it because I don’t hate it - but I'm definitely not a fan. It’s all narrative - sentences, paragraphs, pages of narrative with a little bit of oh-by-the-way you know that doll you put on your bed? It’s, like, growing and stuff. Seriously, dude, the dress is getting shorter and it’s not because it shrank in the wash.
There are some gems hidden amongst the thorns. A mother cares for her sick son and discovers that he is lovesick – “The symptoms of love were the same as those of cholera.” Um, all righty then.
So – is this book supposed to be one big metaphor? I don’t know. It feels like work reading it, but when I do get into reading I can continue for some time. But the lack of desire to pick the book back up means I’ve still only read 131 pages!
I've been doing... other stuff. I watched the BBC's Cranford and smiled when a rather stodgy character distastefully remarked that Dickens is "popular fiction." Isn't it odd that some people assume anything widely appreciated has no intrinsic merit?