A surprising juxtaposition of the seventeenth century with classical times.
At the Daily Beast, Lucy Scholes writes about Middlemarch and Rebecca Mead's forthcoming book about it and its importance to her.
Virginia Woolf once described Middlemarch as “one of the few English novels written for grown-up people,” and, indeed, Mead returns again and again to Eliot’s novel throughout her adult life—as an undergraduate at Oxford; as a young journalist at the beginning of her career in New York; through love affairs; and eventually as a wife, mother, and stepmother—and with every re-reading, she appreciates a new facet of experience offered in its pages. “A book may not tell us exactly how to live our own lives, but our own lives can teach us how to read a book,” she writes wisely.
I've already had a taste of Mead's writing and feeling for the book in Middlemarch and Me at The New Yorker. I can hardly wait to read her full appreciation of Middlemarch.