You guys, I was so wrong about Martin Chuzzlewit. It's really good. Really good as in I am reluctant to put it down. Really good as in briskly paced* and bitingly funny.
*Just so we're all clear: "briskly paced" for a Dickens novel doesn't mean the same thing as "briskly paced" for, say, a Stieg Larsson novel. There's no escaping the lengthy and metaphorical landscape descriptions; you just have to roll with them.
It's possible that the wheels will fall off entirely as I enter the middle third of the novel, but so far it has been a delight. I am wondering if it seemed slow and draggy to me in 2001 because I'd only read one other fat Dickens novel at that point, or if there's some other reason I can't recall. At this point our guys are just about to set sail for the land of the forward and the home of the brash.
If you join me in the #FAMDRAL fun you'll be able to weigh in. You know you want to!
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