I don’t get as much time to read for pleasure as I used to; I remember when I was young I would read books every week – but these days it feels like it can take a very long time indeed to make it through the book I’m currently reading. I also note that I’m deliberately seeking light-hearted – and light-minded- reading more than anything with a significant emotional or intellectual investment. I think this might be a reflection more on the lack of brainpower resources I can bring to this particular task than anything else- I’m not reading for hours each day. I’m luck if I make it past 10 pages or so.
I’ve also discovered an interest – a passion might be stretching it – for historical fiction, especially for those periods of history that have never really had much interest for me. The Charles Lenox books by Charles Finch are a good example. They’re set in Victorian London -the mid 19th century – and follow the exploits of the eponymous character – a kind of dilettante private detective and erstwhile member of parliament as he investigates sordid dealings and wrongdoings. They’re good fun – and cheap on the Bookstore, too. They also quite uneven in pacing and theme: they veer between a light-hearted lack of emotional involvement and a more in-depth social conscience that can be a little disconcerting, at times.
The real issue, though, is that it’s hard to feel any kind of emotional connection with the hero. He’s a nice enough fellow, and obviously cares about things deeply, but he never seems to be driven by much of an interest in anything beyond his own passing interests. Perhaps I’m being harsh here, but I always feel (and it’s probably in keeping with the famed Victorian reserve) that Lenox could quite easily give it all away if he wanted to. I don’t know; perhaps I like my heroes to be a little more needy – a little more driven and emotionally invested. With Lenox, you get the feeling that he could give it all away if he wanted to.