I first read Middlemarch a year ago or maybe it was two. The back of the library book said it was about two unhappy marriages, so I got it in my head that Lydgate and Dorothea would wind up in love with one another in some swoony, tragic ending. I was a good 800 pages in before I realized the climax I was waiting for was never coming.
And maybe that is what made me love it. But no, it was so much more. And then last month I heard this interview with Rebecca Mead about her new memoir, and I took out Middlemarch that night and have been reading it since.
And this is all I want to say, really: that Middlemarch is perfect. It is painful and kind. And it is my favorite.
I love favorite books. I never want to read anything new. Some people aren’t like this, or so I hear. But I am, and I don’t want to be anything else.