I made good progress in
Our Mutual Friend today: sixty pages, woot! Ha, a mere three hundred to go before I am caught up. *facepalm* I'm certain if Dickens had written this as just a single piece for publication, instead of a serial, it wouldn't be nearly the drag it is. The teacher was right: it did, indeed, pick up a bit after page 250 (am now on 330). But it is still, after all, Dickens. Ugh. I like him better than Hemingway (which isn't saying much), but only a little. I at least like what he's saying - he has that lovely British dry and satirical sense of humor - but there is so. goddamn. much of it. I mean, I love me some tortellini (and I wouldn't quite consider his writing on par with good tortellini), but I wouldn't want to eat it for every meal and snack every single day. It gets to the point of, "Yes, we're all impressed with your clever wit. Can we please get on with the story now?" because the story itself is good. Distilled down a bit, one actually has an engaging tale. That's all that keeps me going. Well, and my grade, of course.
