Darlings, I Was Tired Of This Book, Before I Was Halfway Through!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

                                 Having, earlier this year, decided to reread--for the fourth time--"Middlemarch" by George Eliot,  it was my intention to follow that up with Rebecca Mead's "bibliomemoir," "My Life In "Middlemarch.'"  Well, having come off the high of reading Eliot's work for a fourth time, and clearly convinced that, sometime in my future, there will be a fifth reading, I want to save others the trouble of reading Mead's book.

                                  Rebecca Mead is a staff writer for "The New Yorker."  SO WHAT? I say!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  Her book grew out of an essay she wrote about her love for George Eliot, a love that I share.  Had she chosen to write "My Life In 'Middlemarch'" as an essay in that publication, it might have passed muster.  But, to expand this to even a brief 293 pages is a bit of overkill.  I could care less about Mead's lives and loves, and her stepsons.  As for her relationship to Eliot's work, any devotee of it could write their own book, or essay.  I will be honest and say some of the feelings she and I have about Dorothea are mutual, and I agree Raffles is like someone from the world of Dickens. But I am harder on Rosamond Vincy, whom I feel was the kind of woman straight men, by the time I was in college learned to avoid--the ones who were only there to get their MRS. Degree. And if they did not know enough to avoid them, like Lydgate, they were forever snared!!!!!!  Rosamond is a Victorian version of that.  As such, I have utter contempt for her.

                                    There are two good things about the book.  One is that it does not have the self-aggrandizing arrogance, and homophobia, of David Denby's earlier "Great Books."  The second is, because I had just reread "Middlemarch," and because, next to that work, it is the second most referenced, her book makes me want to reread "The Mill On The Floss."  And I still have to read "Romola," the only book of Eliot's I have not read of all.

                                       The writer in me was fascinated by the Annie Wilkes potential of George Eliot's fan, Alexander Main!  What kind of man was he, and why was he so guarded about his private life?  Or is it that obvious?  Hmmmmmmmm......it gives me pause for thought.

                                         However, much of the book could be excised. As I said, before I had reached the halfway point, I was already tired of it!  And for her to structure the book in the same way that George Eliot did "Middlemarch"--with a Prologue, Finale, and eight chapters in between all using the tiles of Eliot's books in the novel--smacks of Denby's arrogance I mentioned earlier!  Does Miss Mead mean to equate herself with George Eliot as a writer? Hey, Becky, who the hell do you think you are kidding?????????

                                            Each devotee of "Middlemarch" will have their own version of this book, whether it stays in their heads, or never gets published.  For Mead to do this, implying that HERS and only HERS, is the definitive word on "Middlemarch" is to paint herself far above her station.  Maybe she should return to that little provincial British town she came out of.  The world beyond has obviously made her too big for her britches!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

                                               Hope this takes you down a peg, dear!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!