I’m reading what I’ve long regarded as my deathbed book, Barnaby Rudge. Years ago, when it was, for me, the last of Dickens’s novels, I decided to save it. I’ve refrained from reading anything about it.
Nearly every sentence has me smiling. Dickens milks the English language for all the humanity it can elicit under his thumbs.
Am I nearing death? Don’t think so. I just decided to end abstinence and enjoy.