My favorite Brit blogger did:
“Some lucky bastard would have got one of the two most mature and devastating of Dickens’s novels – namely Little Dorrit and Bleak House. Each concerns itself with the corruption inherent in the material world, and the psychology of imprisonment and legal procrastination. Neither of them clocks in at under 800 pages. You wouldn’t have time to buy / squander / illegally rent a second home if you were too busy trying to find out what happened to Amy Dorrit and Arthur Clennam. Is it for the good of the nation that Dickmania is circulating among the cabinet? Will any of them actually read them? Probably not, although they may come in handy as reading ‘decoys’ on Chequers weekends when Cameron wants to avoid playing croquet with Sarkozy. Bleak House is often considered to be one of the greatest novels written in English, a view to which I concur (the scene where Guppy proposes to Esther Summerson is one of the funniest in English literature) and its opening pages are so splendid that they are enough to make any prospective writer baulk at the prospect of ever putting well-nibbled biro to paper. However, one of the strange aspects of the English is that no other literature seems to exist except that which is written in English.”
A right Charlie, by The London Bluebird, February 9, 2012
A belated happy birthday, Mr. Dickens.
Hmmmmmmmm… Which American novels would you give to which members of our government? I can’t think of a one. How sad.