Dickens belongs to winter. Just as much as knitting and wood stoves and hot licorice root tea.

I almost can’t read anything else from November to February.


This winter belongs to Bleak House. And in my reading last night was this perfectly Dickensian character description.

“Mr. Vohles put his dead glove, which scarcely seemed to have any hand in it, on my fingers, and then on my guardian’s fingers, and took his long thin shadow away. I thought of it on the outside of the coach, passing over all the sunny landscape between us and London, chilling the seed in the ground as it glided along.”

Don’t worry, the season for Dickens passes with winter. Come March I am ready to pick up some light-hearted Austen-ish romance.