I just ate a choxie honey truffle, and I feel like a complete hedonist.
Except for the imminent return to reading Sybil by Disraeli -- which makes me feel like a masochist. Who the hell starts a novel with 1) a series of characters introduced too quickly and with too little development to remember them all, 2) a *horse race* that is *impossible* to visualize, and seems to compound the fact that we can't picture the characters yet, let alone an entire field of horses, and 3) a third chapter that is basically a history of Britain's monarchy and parliament since the Great Revolution?! *Seriously* Disraeli, you needed to read more Victorian novels: you would have gotten the *pattern* of a successful beginning down.
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I always say, just because you were Prime Minister of Great Britain, that doesn't mean that you write great Victorian romances.
You would be surprised how often I feel compelled to make that statement.
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