day 13: a fictional book

There is one book that I have had sitting on the shelf-- or, more recently, next to my bed-- for years now, literally years, that I have not been able to get into.

Ironically, I'm desperate to be into it. Firstly, there's this little thing called Masterpiece Theater which played the recent BBC miniseries based on this book, which miniseries my mom and I spent weeks and weeks following every Sunday night. It was so good, you guys. So gripping and beautifully acted and gorgeously designed...

Secondly, I get into late Victorian/early Modern British literature in a big way. This novel sits right on the fence of that era, which is so interesting in its own way from a literary historical perspective which I, of course, love because I am nerdtastique. This is a would-be perfect fit.

Thirdly, I've wanted to read the thing for so long that you would expect me to have just hunkered down to plow through it (so to speak, since it's a pretty long book so I'm not sure how much plowing could actually be done). This is not the case, however. I think I know why.

I don't like fiction anymore.

WHAT!, you say, WHAT?!! Well, it's true. I even have a hard time getting very far into Little Women or Emily of New Moon-- it's better lately to just read parts of it.

GASP!, you gasp, GASP!?!! Well I know, right?

I've been spoiled by The Essay. I have been spoiled by non-fiction and the very many interesting real-life things that have and are happening, that it's been hard for me to just let go and read about something not-real. That's not to say I don't read any fiction at all. But the fiction to non-fiction ratio is highly imbalanced and again, it's because I've been spoiled by The Essay.

In fact, here's a link to a very interesting website where you can find just hundreds and hundreds of delightful essays. I recommend (as I always do) A. A. Milne and W. N. P. Barbellion and maybe a bit of G. K. Chesterton. I apparently have a fondness for essayists who publish their works with initials instead of their names. Vernon Lee is also just wonderful and very funny. Also William Hazlitt, who is a cynical as you can get in the most amusing way, and his BFF Charles Lamb, who wrote possibly the most breathtaking and achingly beautiful essay of them all called Dream Children:A reverie. Read it.

Read it now.

Stop reading this and go read that.










Okay well hopefully you've read that by now and so you'll come back to this, inspired. Not by me, by Chuck Lamb. He's inspiring, I am not. If he had a blog, his would be a Blog of Note.

So my point is-- Dream Children: A reverie is part of the reason why I just have a hard time getting into fictional books like The Forsythe Saga, no matter how hard I want to read them. It.

There's also the little problem of Antonia Fraser, who writes biographies of people like Marie Antoinette. I'm currently plowing through (for real, I am) her Wives of Henry VIII, which is fitting since Henry VIII's death day was just recently. Her books are so riveting and interesting that why would I want to read a fictional book about Kitty Howard and her cheating on the big fatty King of England with a gross injured leg, when I could just read the facts? The straight facts? The cold, hard, dishy facts??

I'll make The Forsythe Saga my summer reading. And if I don't finish it this summer, then I'll make it next year's fall break reading. And if that doesn't happen, I know I'll have a lot of time during Christmas break to finish it. Someday.