Thelma said she can’t take to Charles Dickens.
David said he can’t find anything in Wilbur Smith.
Ursula said there’s no point in reading Somerset Maugham.
I read a comment describing the pointlessness of reading Great Expectations, as there was no plot.
Tyson said that he lost a few months trying to read Atlas Shrugged, time that he never got back again.
I was told that Middlemarch was not worth finishing and that Dante, even Jesus Christ himself would not read that Inferno shit.
I like to give everything a go. And I like to be free to put anything aside if necessary. I am reading Great Expectations, an unexpected choice and a royal one. It has taken me a long time to get to Charles Dickens and this book, Great Expectations, which I am reading slowly, is proving to be the most engaging appeal to the senses and the most tantalizing description of everybody I don’t like. And the most accurately hammered out observations of what we do and why! I am anxious not to reach the end too quickly; it is an experience that is causing me great joy and consternation….Miss Havisham, the awful and chosen decay…the astounding way the story has been all put together.
Thelma, at the shop today, said that she can’t take to Charles Dickens, never has been able to. She had in her hand Graham Green and Hans Christian Anderson and Hilary Mantel and she was also looking for Colin Thiele. And she also had for me a Christmas gift, she had bought brown paper and painted it herself, in bright purple to match me, she said. She has also painted some string bright gold and made a card with a silver and gold angel on a deep purple background of night sky and stars. She has written on the card in gold. It is an unexpected gift and a royal one.
I am instructed not to open it until Christmas.
Artwork by Pawel Kuczynski