Sunday, November 16, 2008


For a long now, I've wanted to read Middlemarch. For several years running winter would come and  I would start it and get bogged down and feel bad and put it down and then try again the next winter. I never got past page fifty.  Then, this weekend, stuck in an airport with nothing but The New Yorker and Middlemarch for hours and hours both going and returning, I dove in. I mean, I read almost all of The New Yorker first, and then, the glory of provincial England opened before me, word by word, and it was good.  

Weirdest thing? In the airport, I wasn't even tempted by Us or People or any of it.  Can it be I'm not so interested in how celebrities are dressing or whether or not Reese is ready to marry again, specifically Jake?  This week, maybe so, but, seriously, it kind of means I don't even know who I am anymore.  And now, I've got to get to the bear.

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