"...Spontaneous Combustion, and none other of all the deaths that can be died."
Last night I vaulted out of bed to read the end of chapter 32 aloud to my husband. "This is the best book in the world," I told him. That scene encapsulates so much of what I love about Dickens, the way it fearlessly straddles the line between horrifying and hilarious. It bespeaks a big brass of pair of writerly cojones: I imagine him thinking, "Hmmm, how am I going to keep these letters out of Guppy's hands? I know, I'll have a character spontaneously combust!"
Chapter 33 picks those themes right up: it's an unexpectedly small world, in which horror and hilarity meld in unexpected ways. Mr. Smallweed makes me laugh in spite of myself. Which is the point, I think.
During the years when I was reading Dickens regularly, it would take me about 200 pages to feel like I was in the groove. After some time away, it's been harder to get going. I'm a bit past the halfway mark, and I'm just beginning to think, "I don't want to put this down." If you are bogged down, persevere! Mrs. Bagnet awaits, and you wouldn't want her to reach out of chapter 34 to jab you with her trusty umbrella.
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