George Eliot owns me.

As a rule, I think I'm drawn to long books. Sometimes I think that I should stick to works under 300 pages in length (my co-worker to me:"You know, if you read shorter books, we'd have more to talk about at lunch."), but then I find myself in the library, eyeing that new translation of Don Quixote or the super-complete never-ever-abridged version of so-and-so's letters, and I just can't help it; before I can walk away, the huge books always find themselves in my bag, feeling all solid and hefty and full of promise. I read for the love of a good story, and somehow I always feel like more is more when it comes to plot and character, like the big books must somehow be better, although sometimes they're just...big, and not better. Back in December I cracked open a borrowed copy of Middlemarch, knowing that I'd be dawdling my way through it for awhile. So I did: I read it in the backs of cars and on ski vacations, curled up in bed and on the couch at work. I sighed and underlined and fawned and dragged my feet a little, and then last night I stretched out on the couch and barreled through to the end. And I feel like I've been hit by a train, but in the best way possible.

( Middlemarch. )

Now that I've finished, I have three months' worth of books sitting next to my bed, calling to me. The sad thing is that I'm literary-fictioned out for the moment; I feel like a well-crafted novel would make my eyes bleed right now. Thankfully, the library came to the rescue this afternoon and provided a copy of The Best American Crime Writing 2005, which sounds just quick and gritty enough to provide some much-needed contrast. I wouldn't trade the last three months of reading, but I'm ready to move on.