S. Worthen | Weblog

The most exciting parts of the whole not-very-good novel I recently finished (see "telegram" and "magazines in chemists") were the info-dumps. They were gloriously, fantastically mismatched to their scenes, in such a well-intentioned way, that I kept hoping for more of them. (I sort of wish there had been far more of them than there were.)

They had their flaws, such as when the heroine, musing on how very old a barn is, observes that "This barn was a century old before most Europeans even entertained the idea of the world being round and land existing across the ocean to the west."

But here's my favorite. The heroine and hero are succumbing to their passionate attraction/lust for each other. They're solving a mystery together. It's around midnight and they're alone together. And he invites her back to his rooms to read some journals, part of the investigation. It's the first time that she's been in that wing of his excessively (and impractically) large house. She is astonished at the modernness of this wing of the manor.

(In case you'd forgotten, please do remember that they are succumbing to their passionate attraction to each other. You might have forgotten.)

( And he says... )

It's pouring rain here today, with a fair dose of wind gusts thrown in. More interesting than most anonymous rainstorms, this one has a better-known story. It's what's left of Hurricane Irene, having traveled up the US, across Canada, and all the way over the north of the Atlantic.