My 47-Year Overdue Book Report: A Prelude

When I was in college, I would come home from my last final of fall term to find a gift waiting for me from my mother. This was usually a couple weeks before Christmas, but this gift was never wrapped in Christmas paper - no, no. Just ordinary wrapping, a mysterious, book-shaped package, whatever could it be? My darling mama, having hooked me on the magic of books at age 2, always had a book gift waiting for my first day without homework reading. Christmas break meant diving into a book I CHOSE - huzzah!

If you're watching/listening from heaven: thanks, Mama. <3

It's hard to remember if I got George Eliot's novel, Middlemarch, as one of those Happy End-of-Term gifts, or if it was an actual Christmas gift that year. But Middlemarch, behemoth that it is at 800+ pages, found its way into my library. In spite of the book cover touting it as one of the greatest novels ever written, I undoubtedly felt daunted by it because:

A. It was 800+ pages

B. As an English major, I had been drowning in classic literature for weeks

C. It was 800+ pages

Middlemarch never got read. It moved from house to house with me after I married. I attempted it more than once, but never got past the first 50 or so pages. Did I mention it was 800+ pages?

At some point, I watched BBC production from a DVD box set of George Eliot novels. Our book group had read another Eliot novel by then, Silas Marner (5 stars, by the way, highly recommend), and my mother lent me the whole set of DVD's for that. I quite liked the movie, attempted the novel again, and made a little progress in getting past page 100. If you think I sound 4, you would be right. However, by this time, I really was intrigued with the main character, Dorothea Brooke, and her high integrity and character, particularly in contrast to her choice of a husband.

For the record and in my defense: I have read big books before: Jane Eyre and the original Les Miserables, Count of Monte Cristo and Atlas Shrugged, Witness... It's not like I'm afraid of big books, except for the part where I kind of am. And it's very often not the size, but the age of the thing; ardent readers, please be so kind as to back me up on this. Older novels take their sweet time telling a story and sometimes, modern-day or ADD brains can grow weary of the set-up before they're properly hooked.

Time passed, I read the book in 2-5 page installments, half of which was part of the previous read in an attempt to remember what was going on. At some point, Audible got involved, and I started listening while I sewed. I made some serious headway while listening and put the physical novel away altogether. On a side note: British actress Juliet Stevenson is a top-drawer narrator; I’ve listened to novel by her more than once.

That thing that happens with complex, classic novels - finally happened. Almost imperceptibly, the multiple plots had started to intertwine sufficiently where I was finally interested in all of them, and it wasn't odious to jump from one to the other. Does this happen to any of you, or is it just me?

Another huge hiatus with less time to sew, and I swear, at this point, I wasn't even sure if I wanted to pick this dang book up ever again. I decided I'd watch the movie again for a sense of closure already and be done with it.

But the movie changed my mind. I was actually interested in these people - particularly the 6 people who comprised the 3 love stories of the novel. I decided to get serious about listening ONE. MORE. TIME. If you're still reading this, I have to say - is it only me who is wondering at this point: what is wrong with this book? Or: what is wrong with this woman?

As I embarked on listening - AGAIN - something struck me about why this book was such an ambitious climb. Virginia Wolf once referred to Middlemarch as "one of the few English novels written for grown-up people" - and I. AGREE. It has one of the most complex characterizations - of everyone - of any novel I've ever read. It's a massively in-depth commentary on human nature - no stone of any internal motivation is left unturned. As I jumped in this last time, it surprised me to discover I was genuinely interested to learn what Ms. Eliot had to say about this person... or that.

I realized an impediment from earlier attempts was this very depth of delving into the motives of human nature. There's not much of a plot, so in a way, you could say Middlemarch is a 19th-century Seinfeld - very nearly a book about nothing. If you're not interested in what makes characters tick, I should warn you: you should probably just re-read Hunger Games.

The final joke on me over this 47-year project: I was busy during the holidays a few months ago and wasn't in my sewing room much. By now, I was completely into the story, and decided to dig out the physical novel again so I could read it nightly before bed.

I couldn't find it.

After FORTY-SEVEN YEARS of the biggest schizophrenic, hot-and-cold, on again-off again literary project of my lifetime, I could not find that stupid book, and ruefully realized I had no doubt gotten rid of it in a recent literary purge. Two days before Christmas, I scooted over to Barnes and Noble to purchase another copy of the book that had almost literally become my literary albatross.

I'm sorry, Mama.

I finished it last week. I loved it. In spite of the most scattered approach EVER - to a project that deserved better - it was worth it.

I'll have to tell you why later, as this prelude is a tale all its own. It's my homage to lengthy 19th-century set-ups. Those of you who haven't been scared off by this harrowing tale - stay tuned.

https://www.laureensimper.com/post/choose-thy-love-love-thy-choice