Seriously. HELP ME.
I have made a huge mistake. Well… no, maybe not a mistake. But I don’t have a book to pair for you this week. I’m beginning to wonder if I’ll have one for you until the end of June at this rate.
So. Hot on the heels of my month-long competition (congrats, Anne!), I decided I might as well continue this trend of reading the classics while my brain is in the right place to “get” it. You guys know what I mean, right? There’s a difference between reading the latest poolside thriller and the books of yesteryear, you know? The language is different and the stories are told differently, so of course we need to interact… differently. And I figured that my brain was already in the right place for the classics, so I decided to tackle the one writer I thought high school had ruined for me forever:
Now. He’s not the only author I loathed back in school. Far from it. Heck, I barely liked Shakespeare in high school. There’s just something about the way teachers insist that every little thing is a deliberate choice by the writer to say something and we need to tear everything we read apart like we’re going to find the damn treasure of the Sierra Madre that bothers me…
SOMETIMES THE CURTAINS ARE JUST BLUE! *cough*
But I digress. Dickens was not the worst thing I remember reading–that would be The Scarlet Letter, which I hate with the fury of a supernova and will never read again if I value my sanity–so I decided to give him another shot. And I decided that I might as well start with the story I’d recently watched an adaptation of… so I went with Bleak House. Which is Dickens’, like, second-longest novel by word count. Because I might as well go big or go home.
So… I’ve been reading for a week and I’m on page 100. It’s not a fast book, guys. And this means, I’m sorry to remind you, I have no book to pair this week. Try me again when it’s my turn once more!
But just because there’s no pairing doesn’t mean there’s no drinking! I know I’m tempted to finish off my bottle of Scotch…