(majoring in literature)
Jillian tagged me for the Classics Book Tag – thanks, Jillian! So, let’s get on with it. Also, please enjoy this completely unrelated but extremely pretty stock photo I’ve included, mostly because I’ve pretty much tapped out Unsplash’s supply of book-related stock images.
1. An over-hyped classic you really didn’t like?
Le Mort d’Arthur. It’s basically 400+ pages of dudes in chain main slicing one another’s bodily appendages off as if they were made of butter. Pass.
Not my catchiest title, I’ll admit. But this week’s Top Ten Tuesday forces me to admit which books I’ve been putting off reading for far too long. As you’ll see, mostly my excuse is just plain, good old-fashioned laziness….
1. Middlemarch, by George Eliot – Eliot seems like the natural choice for readers making their way through the most famous English female writers, from Austen to the Brontës to Gaskell. I’ve done all three of those authors, but I’ve yet to build up the enthusiasm to face Eliot’s grimmer style of writing. Plus I’m sad to say that The Mill on the Floss kind of bored me to tears.
A lot of people don’t like revisiting cities they’ve already seen. I’m the opposite; I feel that once you’ve visited the famous landmarks – all the things every tourist ‘has to see’ – you’re free to see some more out of the way, unexpected things. This is especially true in big European cities. I don’t think one visit is ever enough for places like London, Paris, or Rome. On my first full day in London, and I was eager to see something a little ‘off the beaten track’. So I decided to spend the day on Hampstead Heath. Luckily, the Heath has a great deal to offer in the literature way.
I started by making the trek to Highgate Cemetery, where quite a few notable people are buried. Karl Marx is probably the most famous name; his statue’s bulbous head (about three-quarters of which is just beard) is on the front of the map they gave me in the little shed-like entrance house. I, however, was most eager to see the grave of Mary Ann Evans, also known as Mary Ann Cross, also known as George Eliot, the famous nineteenth century novelist.
I’ve always felt a little uncomfortable visiting cemeteries and taking pictures of graves; as if my tourist’s nosiness is somehow least excusable when photographing monuments under which people are buried. But it was a beautiful, sunny day, and Eliot’s grave is in a nice little spot. I actually passed by it the first time; two women were lighting candles on one of the graves and I thought it would be rude to intrude on their private moment. When I returned ten minutes later, I found that the candles they had been lighting had, in fact, been for Eliot’s grave. It was a sweet gesture, and testament to her influence across the generations.
(majoring in literature) 
