With much anticipation built by reading tweets from fellow bookies, plus a few reviews, I decided to start reading The Moonstone by Wilkie Collins.
I’ve never been totally convinced about Victorian writing – I find the Brontes “okay” (which seems terribly dismissive, but truthful), I love Vanity Fair, Dracula (which is admittedly quite late) and Lewis Carroll, I’ve made my way through Middlemarch, I’ve been thoroughly bored by Charles Dickens (oh god, my library membership is going to be revoked, isn’t it?) – in short, I love some, I hate some, so I thought I could happily tackle Collins and at least give it a go.
Except, it turns out, I can’t. Total and utter non-interest. I just cannot rouse myself to go further and I’m so ashamed! Not enough to keep reading, but still.
Please don’t throw me out of the club. 
On a better note though I started The Chimney Sweeper’s Boy by Barbara Vine, and 15 pages in I’m totally hooked and slightly repelled, which of course adds to the “hooking”.
2 Responses to “We are not amused”
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Don’t worry. I did enjoy Moonstone, but it can’t live up to a lot of hype. (Dickens bores me to tears, too. Shush, don’t tell!)
Your secret is, of course, safe with me.