Oxymoron there, hm? My big fat winter book is coming to
an end. Of 853 pages, I’m picking up speed on page
772. And I do mean picking up speed. George Eliot, oh, ok,
Mary Ann Evans, really knew how to liven up the last 200 pages
or so for her readers.
These old Victorian novels were often published in sections, you
know—and that makes it easy to be tempted to add on those extra
pages in wordy descriptions. Were they paid by the word as small
newspapers used to pay the writers of the “personals?”
Mrs. Margery Haverhill, of Warrensbury, New York, visited her
sister and her husband, Mr. and Mrs. Edwin S. Hinter of North
Evansville, New York on the seventh, eighth and ninth days of
February in the year of our Lord 2015″—-at a nickel a word!
I can’t tell you the last time I saw Celia–and James, seldom. Mary,
nonexistent–Will, left town (Middlemarch). No point in asking about
Casaubon . . .
Lydgate and Rosamond have really taken over the story:
They’re married but there’s trouble in paradise— and we deal with that
But BULSTRODE–Mr. Bulstrode—who you don’t even know! has become
a big part of the plot. He has a secret past which you won’t get me to tell you
about–but he’s being bribed by Mr. Raffles—(you don’t know him either, but
I would have had fun getting a picture of him!) and things look dark, dark,
dark—including for Lydgate! How’d they get in such a mess—-and, can it
all be cleared up in say, um,,,853-772 = 81 pages?
Oh, yes! Good old Dorothea is back in the picture—and maybe she’ll save
To Be Continued!