I'm beginning to wonder if French Literature is not entirely my thing. I know I am a fairly devoted Anglophile (I read more British authors than any others), but reading French Literature, classics in particular, seems to be a mixed bag for me. I feel guilty admitting this, but Victor Hugo's Les Misérables was a bit of an uphill battle. I rarely (pretty much never) would choose to read an abridged version of any book, but I think I might have gotten on better with Hugo had I done so. Don't get me wrong; I am glad I read it and recognize it for being the classic it is, but I don't have quite the fond memories of it as say Alexandre Dumas's The Count of Monte Cristo (brilliant!) or The Three Musketeers (would happily reread either--full versions only of course). And I have read Flaubert's Madame Bovary not just once but twice. Émile Zola's Thérèse Raquin was a good choice for me, too. I guess I like either a good tragedy, a little seduction followed by more tragedy or pure swashbuckling adventure.
So you would think Honoré de Balzac's Père Goriot would be right up my alley, too. I want to love it, but I find myself only feeling tepid about it. I like it when I pick it up to read, but I find that when I am reaching for a book Balzac is not who I am reaching for. It has elements I like--a Parisian boarding house filled with interesting characters, intrigue, scheming, a young man climbing the social ladder whose intentions aren't exactly straightforward and not usually admirable, high Parisian Society, a criminal living amongst the honest French citizens chez Madame Vauquer, poisoning, duels . . . Normally I would be caught up in the story and happily turning pages. I have just about 75 pages left to go. Most of my reading attention for the coming days will be on Balzac, less for the fact that I can't wait to find out what happens, but more because I am ready to pick up some other classic.
Okay, so that was a bit of a sweeping statement I made at the start of this post, and I think I have had far more good experiences in my reading of the French classics (and there is the lovely and marvelous Colette and most excellent Georges Sand), and it is only because I am feeling the tiniest bit bogged down at the moment . . . I suspect when I turn those last pages I will feel much kinder towards the book than I am feeling at the moment. And likely it is just me and my mood at the moment, timing maybe, than anything Balzac is doing. But are there moments when reading that you think you should really feel more enthusiastic about a book than you do in reality? I won't give up on Balzac by any means (I bought Cousin Bette not too long ago by the way--should I give her a go, or perhaps some other of his novels?), and certainly not on French Literature, but I think I will be happy to finish Père Goriot.
And now for something completely different. Did you hear that yesterday Mary Stewart passed away at the age of 97? It made me sad to hear. She lived a long life and is much loved and admired and has certainly given me (and no doubt many, many others) much pleasure in her books, though it had been a number of years since she had published anything new. I own quite a few of her novels--both her Arthurian stories and those of romantic suspense) and have read a number of them and loved each and every one. In her honor I thought I should pick up one from my TBR pile and so have started Wildfire at Midnight which is set in the Coronation year of 1953 in the Scottish Highlands. It was a little bit of a quandary of deciding, but I think I picked just the right story as only a chapter in and I am already hooked.
I finished reading Josephine Tey's The Man in the Queue (will write about it soon), and while I groused about a few things in the story along the way, I must say in the end I enjoyed it very much. I am almost ready to pick up the next Inspector Grant mystery, but I am as yet undecided which vintage mystery to choose. In my pile of possibilities sits Edmund Crispin, Vera Caspary, Ngaio Marsh, Patricia Wentworth and Margery Allingham. Unless, of course I pick something entirely different). Ah, the sweet agony of deciding on a new book. I only have two slots filled on my Bingo card--a mystery with a color (Agatha Christie's Man in the Brown Suit) in the title and one set in the entertainment world (the Tey). I have four more books to read to call Bingo. Surely a doable goal? In any case you never need to twist my arm to read a mystery.
Case in point? I shouldn't have but I did. I have started reading The Cuckoo's Calling by Robert Galbraith (aka J.K. Rowling). So far, so good, but it's early days yet. Part of the draw was the blurbs to be honest--more than one reviewer called the London setting vivid and a good London setting is very appealing to me at the moment. I won't be doing anymore traveling for the rest of the year (I'm all about paying bills for the foreseeable future), so expect lots of armchair travel. I guess London is my first destination. I will be taking days off from work, however, as I have quite a few vacation days racked up and if I don't start using them I will lose them. You might just find me lazing on the porch, lemonade in one hand (if it ever gets warm here) and a book in the other.
But this weekend? It's me and Balzac all the way.