I happened upon Middlemarch in the library last week and I grabbed it, wondering how, through four UVic years of enjoyable but realistically useless Victorian literature, did I manage to miss reading Middlemarch?
I’m worried, though, that I’m becoming an impatient reader. Almost all young adult novels deliver constant movement and change, chapter after chapter. Victorian novels move at a slower page. A much slower pace.
Maybe the long weekend and some extra time will get me in the George Eliot flow.