I have decided. Eliot is like casserole. A long, slow-cooked casserole that fills the house with its smell and impregnates itself into the curtains.
When last we left them, the Middlemarchers were fair to middling in their various life choices.
We had met Dorothea and DESPAIRED of her marrying that dull prosy old fart (Casaubon); and had made a tentative acquaintance with Tertius Lydgate.
One of my New Year’s resolutions was to read (or re-read) classic novels. You know, those books literati refer to with arched eyebrows and smug smirks, to which I nod knowingly about and bluff my way through, whilst never having ACTUALLY really read. (Advanced English & Cliff’s Notes for the win).