Learning to love literature

Welcome. Welcome. I have begun a new blog. Because I more or less fizzled out on The Hiphopanonymous Report, I figured that it would be best to make up an entirely new blog in hopes of starting afresh and gaining some positive momentum. That so, what I would like to do for the first several posts of the Little Mansie and then later transition to a recurring theme is to share some thoughts on my current journey through one of Holly's most favoritest books--Middlemarch. Admittedly, in the past I have said that, "I have no time for fiction." I know what I said was an overstatement even as it was coming out of my mouth, and yet there it went. In hopes of learning to love literature one day as much as my wife does I have begun this great tome. So far I have read fourteen chapters and I have already come across more than a few humorous and/or enlightening statements. So, without any further diddle-dallying I would like to share one.

"When Miss Brooke was at the tea-table, Sir James came to sit down by her, not having felt her mode of answering him at all offensive. Why should he? He thought it probable that Miss Brooke liked him, and manner must be very marked indeed before they cease to be interpreted by preconceptions either confident or distrustful. She was thoroughly charming to him, but of course he theorized a little about his attachment. He was made of excellent human dough, and had the rare merit of knowing that his talents, even if let loose, would not set the smallest stream in the county on fire: hence he liked the prospect of a wife to whom he could say, 'What shall we do?' about this or that; who could help her husband out with reasons, and would also have the proper qualification for doing so...."