The Road to Little Dribbling - Bill Bryson

I’ve resumed my rereading of the works of Bill Bryson, first with Made In America: An Informal History of the English Language in the United States, which I didn’y have much to say about other than I liked it, as I do all Bill Bryson books, and then with The Road to Little Dribbling.

Dribbling might be my least favourite of Bryson’s books, which is not to say I don’t like it. he’s funny as ever, and his deft writing is always good company. But it always felt to me arbitrary, and suffers from comparison to the inimitable Notes from a Small Island. The book is indeed, something between a sequel and a reboot of Notes. Written for the 20th anniversary of the previous book, Bryson once again tours his adopted homeland, this time following a route that is obstensibly anchored to the Bryson Line—the longest straight line that can be drawn through Britain without crossing over water—and that starts and ends at its termini, but otherwise ventures more or less wherever he pleases.

Bryson makes an effort not to retread too much old territory, but repeat visits are inevitable, and his opining on the state of modern Britain can feel a bit one note. There was always a tone of cranky old man in Bryson’s writing, even when he was a young man, and this element seems to have gained prominence as he’s aged. That being said, Bryson raises crankiness to an art form, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy his acerbic takedowns of foolishness.

All told, Dribbling is a Bryson book and as such worth reading. It likely won’t go on my regular rotation alongside his true masterpieces, but I’m happy to have it on hand on my bookshelf.

Notes from a Small Island - Bill Bryson

Notes from a Small Island is one of Bryson's most beloved works, and for good reason. Though I wouldn't rank it above Thunderbolt Kid or A Walk in the Woods in his catalog of travel literature, it remains a funny and informative exploration of the British land and its culture. His genuine affection for the place doesn't blind him to its flaws, and he is unflinching in his criticism where he feels criticism is warranted.

I don't have much to say about this one apart from that I like it. It's Bryson—probably even Quintessential Bryson—and that's enough for me.

Great Expectations - Charles Dickens

Dickens has long been one of the more embarrassing gaps in my literary knowledge. Prior to picking up Great Expectations, the only book of his I’d read was A Tale of Two Cities—a good book, but one not very representative of his typical themes. With its orphaned protagonist, family intrigue, and dissection of the English class system, Great Expectations is much more the quintessential Dickens novel—exactly the sort of story one thinks of as “DIckensian.”

The story is narrated by the aforementioned orphen, a boy named Pip, who begins the novel in the care of his overbearing and resentful sister and her kindhearted but simple husband Joe. A chance encounter with an escaped convict echoes through his life in unexpected ways, though at the titme it seems only to cause him a few days of fear and discomfort. As he grows older, Pip makes the acquaintance of an eccentric shut-in named Miss Havisham, who wears a wedding dress in lamentation of her betrayal by a jilting lover, and her beautiful but cold adopted daughter Estella, whom Pip falls in love with. The story teaks an unexpected turn when Pip learns that a mysterious benefactor has provided him with the financial means necessary to become a gentleman, and he departs for London under the guardianship of the lawyer Jaggers.

The story is full of melodrama and the characters are drawn broadly, demonstrating the heights of either vice or virtue, but both of these characteristics are so dinstinctly ties to Dickens that it would be naive not to expect them. They are simply part of his style, and the richness of his prose and the power of his stories makes them work.

One aspect of the story that surprised me was its humour. It’s been a while, but I don’t recall A Tale of Two Cities as being particularly funny, so some of the great turns of phrase in this book struck me off guard. Dickens wields an erudite wit, dealing slashes of irony so sharp and fine their presence isn’t felt until a couple of sentences later. His writing is rewarding for this, along with its imagery, but it can be dense at times to a modern reader, so my pace was a bit slower than it would be typically be. The book definitely whetted my appetit for more Dickens, though I’ll likely take a break with lighter fare in the meantime.