A Tale of Two Cities, by Charles Dickens

I don't know how I always forget, when I'm not reading him, what a genius Dickens is, but there you have it: if you ask me in between reads whether I like him, I might make a face, or claim that he bores me. In reality, quite the reverse is true: Dickens is clearly one of the most talented writers ever, and I love his books--for their wit, their vocabulary, their delightful secondary characters, their plots, their pace, and even, though I gasp to admit it, their length. (After all, the longer the book, the longer I get to spend with the pearls of humanity that Dickens creates.)

A Tale of Two Cities is no exception; in fact, it proves the rule. This is, I think, one of Dickens's best: it's hilarious, with his trademark snarky narration ("the owls made a noise with very little resemblance in it to the noise conventionally assigned to the owl by men-poets. But it is the obstinate custom of such creatures hardly ever to say what is set down for them") and robust exaggeration ("That they could never lay their heads upon their pillows; that they never could tolerate the idea of their wives laying their heads upon their pillows; that they could never endure the notion of their children laying their heads upon their pillows; in short, that there never more could be, for them or theirs, any laying of heads upon pillows at all, unless the prisoner’s head was taken off") and minor character absurdity ("Mr. Cruncher himself always spoke of the year of our Lord as Anna Dominoes: apparently under the impression that the Christian era dated from the invention of a popular game, by a lady who had bestowed her name upon it"); it's enthralling, with its fast-paced plot of life and death and intrigue and history and sacrifice; and, just as a bonus, it's historically interesting too, as Dickens portrays the French Revolution, that time of horrors, without being overly or underly horrifying, showing the atrocities, as well as the mercies, of both sides. Though, of course, the heroine leaves something to be desired (although reading Lucie Manette was a relief after reading Laura Fairlie, that doesn't mean she wasn't inspid), the other female characters are a joy: the short ("dissociated from stature," as Dickens is careful to remind us) Miss Pross, and of course the famously vengeful Madame Defarge make this book's treatment of women sufficiently appealing to the modern reader.

(I swear I'm not usually so hung up on this issue. I think reading Collins has just made me feel that way.)

Dickens is by far the most talented of the Victorian serialists, in case there was any doubt; what's more, he may be the most talented of, well, anyone. And, with that, I set myself the task of reading all the others. I can't believe what little Dickens I've actually read--curse that short memory for greatness of mine. At least, now, I can look back on my reviews and remind myself of his genius, so that I don't forget in between reads.