After Henry

Well to my surprise, The Europeans didn’t quite turn out as I thought it might. There was a mildly sour twist at the end. Someone didn’t quite live happily ever after. But unless Henry James’ longer works are, I don’t know what, “more” something I guess (for want of a decent verb), then I won’t rate him as highly as Edith Wharton, who still sits at God’s feet, scribbling frantically. Henry James can work with St Peter, if he really must be in Heaven.
Now attempting Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina as my “at home” read, and Chocky by John Wyndham as my “travelling” read. It’s an experiment in whether I can read two books at once! I don’t really see how I can lug an 800 page tome that is Anna Karenina to work and sit at the counter reading it. I might get sussed – I was lucky I didn’t get sussed this afternoon, as I’d left Chocky lying on the counter when the boss came to the Reception desk.
*goes off to read*