|As you can see, my gif-craft is severely behind the times|
There! That's my intelligent comment done.
(2) Mr Fairlie's narrative is the best thing in the English language. Hyperbole? NO.
Let me do the girl justice. Her shoes did NOT creak. But why do Young Persons in service all perspire at the hands? Why have they all got fat noses and hard cheeks? And why are their faces so sadly unfinished, especially around the corners of the eyelids? I am not strong enough to think deeply myself on any subject, but I appeal to professional men, who are. Why have we no variety in our breed of Young Persons?AAAAAAAHHHH!!!!
It was as I was reading this and thinking, hot damn, that I also thought how unfortunate it was that the book starts out with certified milquetoast Walter Hartright. And then I thought: what if that was on purpose. Remember (of course you do) how I thought that first section read like a parody of a Victorian novel? What if???
I don't think I'm prepared to give Wilkie credit for self-parody, but I will give him credit for hiding his immense talents more successfully than he hid his immense forehead. (Like Rick Astley, I will never give that up.)
GOSH THIS BOOK MAKES ME KIND OF GIDDY.
(3) It is officially a Fiction Pet Peeve of mine when people are obviously drugged and don't realize it. So the maid drinks something, passes out, and when she wakes up the top-secret letter in her bodice is crumpled. That's not suspicious!
"Do you suppose there are any secrets going on here?" he broke out suddenly; "there are none--there is nothing underhand, nothing kept from you or from any one." After speaking those strange words loudly and sternly, he filled himself another glass of wine and asked Lady Glyde what she wanted of him.That's not suspicious!
I looked carefully at the entry. It was at the bottom of a page, and was for want of room compressed into a smaller space than that occupied by the marriages above.... The register of the marriage of Sir Felix Glyde was in no respect remarkable except for the narrowness of the space into which it was compressed at the bottom of the page.That's not suspicious! (I hope this turns out to be suspicious, or I'll be embarassed.)
(6) HOLY CRAP ON A STICK LAURA'S ALIVE! I love how the lawyer appeals to the inscription on the tombstone as proof that she's dead. "They carved it in stone, Mr Hartright! In stone! Case. Closed."
"Walter!" she whispered, "my own darling! my heart is heavy for you. Oh, my son! my son! try to remember that I am still left!"This... is kind of a creepy, upsetting way to tell your son that his true love is dead, right?
(8) NOT DONE YET.
I reached home on foot, taking the precaution, before I approached our own door, of walking round by the loneliest street in the neighborhood, and there stopping and looking back more than once over the open space behind me. I had first learnt to use this stratagem against suspected treachery in the wilds of Central America--and now I was practicing it again, with the same purpose and with even greater caution, in the heart of civilised London!Wait, so how does that work in the jungle?
Her drawings, as she finished them, or tried to finish them, were placed in my hands. Marian took them from me and hid them carefully, and I set aside a little weekly tribute from my earnings, to be offered to her as the price paid by strangers for the poor, faint, valueless sketches, of which I was the only purchaser.Yeah, deception! That's worked so well in the past! Certainly no one in this book has been traumatized by being lied to! Meanwhile, Hartright is disgusted by the idea of wearing a disguise when he goes out.
Also, why does he give them to Marian to hide? Doesn't he live on a separate floor? Hartright, you're such an idiot.
(11) Mrs Catherick! What a badass.
"Your information would be more satisfactory if you were willing to explain how you became possessed of it. However, it justifies me, I suppose, in going into mourning. There is not much alteration necessary in my dress, as you see. When I have changed my mittens, I shall be all in black." She searched in the pocket of her gown, drew out a pair of black lace mittens, put them on with the stoniest and steadiest composure, and then quietly crossed her hands in her lap. "I wish you good morning," she said.DAMN THAT'S COLD. Did you know mittens could be so heartless?
(12) I am so looking forward to finishing this book, not because I want it to be over but because I want to see what the Wilkster has for us. YEAH THE WILKSTER, WE ARE BROS NOW. Although, I can hardly imagine how the ending could live up to the rest of the story.
(13) I CANNOT EVEN talk to you about the MIND-BLOWING ENDING of this section (Sir Percival, the vestry; I know this sounds like a lie, but my jaw dropped). Once again, here we have some seriously rigorous standards for proving death: "No, I haven't actually ever met this man before but you need someone to identify the body? Sure! What the hell. I've got time." Do you think he's going to pull a Laura? Do you think this was orchestrated by the Count? Did Sir Percival not know about the copy of the register despite the chattiness of that dude? AHHHHHHH SEE YOU NEXT WEEK AHHHHHHHH.