I'm having something of a crisis with my reading material at the moment. I like to have, in fact must have, a book on the go at all times. To ensure that there's no unpleasant book-free hiatus, I always cue up a new one as I approach the drawing room denouement chapter of my current read.
Once I've committed to a book, I don the hair-shirt and simply have to finish it. So it is then that I find myself wading through Balzac's Cousin Bette like a condemned man on the long walk to the gallows.
I read Pere Goriot when I was young and enthusiastic (remember those days?) and adored it. I had great hopes for this book then. Unfortunately, it's shite - verbose, slow, confusingly-plotted and all the characters are loathsome. I've only kept reading it in the forlorn hope that there's a chapter looming in which all the protagonists are making their way across a level-crossing when they're hit by a runaway train full of red-hot anvils.
No joy so far. On with chapter ninety then.
No comments:
Post a Comment