Over the past few days, I have been watching the BBC mini-series Bleak House, which is based on the novel by Charles Dickens. It is pretty awesome I must say, so thanks Steph for telling me about it what, a year and a half ago?

So after I came down off the high of watching the very end of it last night, I started thinking about Dickens, which is not so much of a high for me. I cannot figure that man out.

At least, I can't figure out how I feel about him as an author. Biggest example: A Tale of Two Cities. I never had to read that book in high school or college, but last summer of my own accord, I sat down to read it. To be honest though, my motivation was because of a boy.

My favorite set of Broadway pipes, James Barbour, was set to play Sydney Carton in the musical version that was then on its way to Broadway, and has since, sadly, closed. I wanted to be familiar with the story in anticipation for the show. I am such a Broadway nerd!

The point here is, I sat down to read that book, voluntarily, and I still had to force my self to continue page after page. It took me forever. And when I was finished, I was so confused. Not about the storyline, I understood that, but about my own opinions.

Is it possible to love a story while hating the way it's told? I am sorry Mr. Dickens, but I really do not like the way you write. And yet I have to say you created some pretty amazing storylines. I managed to hate the book and love the story simultaneously. And after I read A Tale of Two Cities, I watched the 1935 movie with Ronald Colman as Sydney Carton and thought with was wonderful.

And with Bleak House, I loved the story a lot, but I will never ever sit down and read the book. Why? Because I wouldn't want to ruin it for myself. Am I the only one who feels this way about one of the most popular English novelists of his time?