Ten-ish years later I am back on the road to Middlemarch, this time with company. 

The intervening years have brought significant changes to my life. I've gotten married, I moved out of the city, I live in a Midwestern suburb. My life is much less Dunkin Donuts and train commutes and more walking down tree-lined streets and knowing the first names of everyone that uses the little public library where I work now. I've had losses, but thankfully not many, and I have new, close friends. I have lost touch with other friends. The regret of that is sometimes a sharp pain. 

One lovely change is that my mom and I have spent the last few years reading big books over the course of a calendar year, starting with War and Peace in 2020. I have been hankering to re-read Middlemarch with her, and 2026 is the year. It's kind of a shame how little I actually can recall of the story, other than the pleasure of being in it. Dorothea and Celia, Casaubon, Lydgate and Rosamond, those characters and storylines I recall, but Mary Garth has faded, as has Ladislaw. 

Just over a week into the new year, and I am up to chapter 3. I am struck by the complexity of Eliot's writing and the depth of insight into characters and relationships. After spending last year reading David Copperfield, my thought is a resounding: Dickens could never.