The old reading mojo is in full force. I enjoyed late summer days reading Dan Brown's The Lost Symbol, where
Then I ploughed through Anne Rice's Cry to Heaven, an epic account of the lives of two castrati. I was caught up in the fantastic detail and compelling portraits of two very different men, whose lives intertwine. I came to care for these characters so much.
The Picture of Dorian Grey was a sort of one-off book club project for the cottage trip. We all read it. We discussed it. I think the feelings were mutual. The purple prose, the epigram-laden pages, became a bit too much. What I loved in the brief but sentimental stories by Wilde that I read as a child, don't translate so well for me as an adult.
Now, it's Jane Austen time, as I'm reading not only all six novels, but some supporting material too.