Probably one of these days I'll bring myself to write to you about the book I'm presently rereading for the thousandth time. It is, essentially, a very bad book, so it may take me some time to figure out a way to explain why I keep rereading it. I estimate that it's at least as bad as Millbank; and though, as you know, I did manage to write an entire essay on that novel, I feel that I may not have the stamina to repeat the experience. I'm in one of those moods in which I'm beginning to imagine that I may never write another essay again. So many words; how will I ever do it?

In any case, here are some details about the book I am presently rereading:

The jolly innkeeper is described as "mine worthy host." This is not dialogue.

The yokel-ish patrons of the inn speak in mysterious dialect: for instance, instead of saying exactly, they say 'xactly.

Aristocrats = good. Revolutionaries = bad.

Sample of actual conversation: "Afraid be demmed! Do you impugn my bravery, Madame?"

I'm sure you are on tenterhooks to learn more about this fine piece of literature. Or perhaps you, too, spent long childhood hours in dark library corners with this very book. If so, you may be interested in reading what the author says about writing it:"It was God's will that I should. And to you moderns, who perhaps do not believe as I do, I will say, 'In the chain of my life, there were so many links, all of which tended towards bringing me to the fulfillment of my destiny.'"

I suppose that's as good an explanation as any for why I reread the damn thing.