Every self-respecting bookworm seems to have read these books. I am both self-respecting and a bookworm … and I haven’t. Ah, paradoxes.
Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen
I’ve watched the black and white Laurence Olivier Pride and Prejudice, the 1995 BBC series, the 2005 film, ‘Lost in Austen’ and ‘Austenland’. I have never read the actual book.
Why? Because everyone seemed to swoon at the very thought of Mr Darcy. Being a contrary lass, I decided that I would never do the same.
I shall pick the book up one day, and share the magic with everyone else. Until then, Georgette Heyer and I are getting along swimmingly.
I think I was quite influenced by the 1995 series though. When my sister, her friend and I visited one of the homes used in the series, little me was quite puzzled and asked where Mr Darcy was. (He wasn’t there. It was a bit of a downer.)
The Lord of the Rings trilogy by J. ‘Lots of Rs’ Tolkien
I know what the books are about. Of course I do (*cough* fanfiction *cough). But I’ve never actually read them.
Though I find him to be a fascinating gentleman, I am not particularly enamoured with Tolkien right now. I’ve read his translation of Beowulf, however, his commentary of the thing that has boggled me somewhat. The book is at home. I am not at home at present. (And there lies my excuse.)
Oliver Twist [or basically: Anything by Dickens]
I’m trying to read one of Dicken’s works, but I am feeling rather daunted by his reputation; apparently, the fellow uses lots of characters. Tons of characters. Multitudes of characters.
A Tale of Two Cities is on my readolution list, but I’ve been avoiding it (and doing a splendid job of it, if I do say so myself). Oliver Twist isn’t on that list, but I’ve been quite happily ignoring that too.
But … I will attack a Dickens. Soon. This year, in fact. Not today. But soon.