I have a first (completed) edition of Little Dorrit by Charles Dickens dated London 1857.
I must confess that I haven’t read it (nor have any intention of reading the blighter).
To be honest my heart doesn’t miss a beat when I hear the name Charles Dicken … he was the literary Big Mac of the 19th century in my opinion – quantity rather than quality, if you catch my drift … just waiting for TV to be invented … the Bee Bee Cee would certainly have had him on the payroll as scriptwriter-in-chief.
I read a couple like everyone else, dutifully waded through Great Expectations, doggedly ploughed through Oliver Twist but couldn’t be doing with it myself, too many words … oh for gawd’s sake get to the point, will ya!
Mind you, he wrote a couple of decent ones … A Tale of Two Cities, though in my humble abode he was drifting slightly out of genre with that one (historical novel, innit) … punchy opening though It was the best of times, it was the worst of times … goes with a swing I mean, but your Christmas Carols, your Dombeys And Sons, your Little Dorrits, your Mutual Friends … oh please, do me a favour!
But Bleak House was a cracking good TV series, wasn’t it?
Don’t know what I shall do with this unreadable book, any ideas?
Ah, zut alors! I’ve just noticed that the spine has cracked …
What the Dickens is going on?