Buck and I have been awash lately in British Victorian period dramas, thanks to Netflix. We’ve just finished Middlemarch and are now working on Anthony Trollope: He Knew He Was Right. And so we are also awash in great silk and satin dresses with complicated laces.
Buck: “I thought Trollope was a comedy writer.” Nope, heartfelt sorrows abound, though not with quite the inevitability that they do in Thomas Hardy. For me, reading Hardy is like watching a cat play with its food for about five hundred pages before he kills and eats it.
Up next: The Way We Live Now. First chapter: I meet Mrs. Carbury, writing letters to editors. I want to have started it before the disks get loaded into the DVD player, to have a feel of the words in the printed book that no video can get across. In this, I am going up against (going up with?) a writer who was both prolific and verbose. Wish me luck.
Related articles
- Items of Useless Information. No 6. (transremaxculver.wordpress.com)
- Writers’ Roundup, #4 (musingbymoonlight.com)
white pebble 