Currently Reading #32 (and asides)

[littlerdog.livejournal.com]

I trailed the moving finger down the non-fiction shelf by the bed and came up with All Sorts and Conditions of Men by Walter Besant. Except, as those of you are ahead of me may already know, it's fiction.

Bah.

How I came think it wasn't a novel is beyond me, especially as it's in English, unlike my other faux pas in the fiction/non-fiction differentiation department, which was Une Histoire d'un Conscrit de 1813. I picked up a rather battered French-language edition sometime somewhere, under the misapprehension that it was a memoir. Nope, it's a roman, a novel, a fictional collaboration between two French writers from the Moselle region of France. Bah.

Some in the family have speculated on my ability to read a book in French, so here's my translation of the first paragraph:

'Those who didn't see the glory of Emperor Napoleon during the years 1810, 1811 and 1812, will never know the heights of power to which a man can climb.'

That's perfectly good English, anyway!

:)

To return to Besant, I have to say it's not a very good book. The dialogue is unconvincing, and the plot contrived. Not sure why I'm still reading. Perhaps it will go on to draw the poorer parts of London with sympathy and accuracy. We can hope.