Never start a Wilkie Collins whilst writing up an essay

Those of you who know me may be aware of my habit of reading other texts by authors I'm working on, a sort of cross between background reading and work avoidance. I now have an excellent grounding in Gaskell, I've read 4 1/3 novels of hers just in order to talk about North and South. (I got a bit bored with Cranford.) But after reading the last 300 pages of Wives and Daughters yesterday, which is lovely but a tad slow, I was ripe for rebellion. I did the essay stint, wrote about half of the thing in fact, and then picked up that Wilkie Collins I'd found at Oxfam recently, No Name. Just one chapter, then I'd go to bed.

Actually, it was only two chapters. But I then read another 150 pages today. I've read enough Collins to know perfectly well that he writes thrillers (of a sort), it's my own silly fault. Oh well, hopefully I'll finish off that essay fairly quickly tonight and then I can get back to the delights of hurtling through a huge Victorian novel, dying to know what will happen next and whether I've guessed correctly. (I guessed both Osborne's and Cynthia's secrets in W&D, I was quite proud of myself.) I'm in love with Magdalen Vanstone, by the way.

Considering that I'm spending the semester on Victorian novels (industrial), and writing my dissertation on late-Victorian novels (gothic), you'd think I'd go for some other form of escapism.

One complaint. Could Penguin kindly stop giving away the plot on the back of the book?

Next day

I finished the essay last night, read another 300 pages of Collins, and finished the book off this afternoon. (And now the eternal whine arises: I need something to read...) I'm now rereading and tweaking the essay, a novel sensation since I usually finish them in the nick of time and don't have time for this process. I think there's something wrong with my sentences. *broods*

Never start a Wilkie Collins whilst writing up an essay

Those of you who know me may be aware of my habit of reading other texts by authors I'm working on, a sort of cross between background reading and work avoidance. I now have an excellent grounding in Gaskell, I've read 4 1/3 novels of hers just in order to talk about North and South. (I got a bit bored with Cranford.) But after reading the last 300 pages of Wives and Daughters yesterday, which is lovely but a tad slow, I was ripe for rebellion. I did the essay stint, wrote about half of the thing in fact, and then picked up that Wilkie Collins I'd found at Oxfam recently, No Name. Just one chapter, then I'd go to bed.

Actually, it was only two chapters. But I then read another 150 pages today. I've read enough Collins to know perfectly well that he writes thrillers (of a sort), it's my own silly fault. Oh well, hopefully I'll finish off that essay fairly quickly tonight and then I can get back to the delights of hurtling through a huge Victorian novel, dying to know what will happen next and whether I've guessed correctly. (I guessed both Osborne's and Cynthia's secrets in W&D, I was quite proud of myself.) I'm in love with Magdalen Vanstone, by the way.

Considering that I'm spending the semester on Victorian novels (industrial), and writing my dissertation on late-Victorian novels (gothic), you'd think I'd go for some other form of escapism.

One complaint. Could Penguin kindly stop giving away the plot on the back of the book?

Next day

I finished the essay last night, read another 300 pages of Collins, and finished the book off this afternoon. (And now the eternal whine arises: I need something to read...) I'm now rereading and tweaking the essay, a novel sensation since I usually finish them in the nick of time and don't have time for this process. I think there's something wrong with my sentences. *broods*