I enjoyed Great Expectations very much, and thought it rather darkly compelling in a sunlit way (if that is to be taken with the mindset that I am a fan of American gothic) with the misshapen faces in Jaggers' office (as well as Jaggers himself, and Ms. Havisham too) serving as the centerpoint for such moods.
I really honestly like most of the characters in this story. Favorite = Wemmick. Runner up = Herbert. Obviously. These characters are so fleshed out and amiable that one cannot help but to love them dearly. The working up to Wopsle's wedding was basically the cutest thing to ever happen (Halloa!).
Pumblechook, I disliked immensely, in not a hateful way, but more of an annoyance in a way that in the moments where he was introduced into the text, I was hurriedly reading waiting for him to take leave. He is like that annoying fly buzzing around your head that you want to ignore but simultaneously irritates you to the point of outrage until you cannot leave it alone (and must act out on, as Pip does). Estella, too, I could not grow to like as she was a very flat character, dismissible herself -- in just the way that she could not take to any man, I found no fondness for her.
I was not pleased with the ending, which seemed faded and like an afterthought. The version I was reading held Dickens' original ending without a marriage, and though I understand that the latter was frowned upon, I would have to say that the original is not much better. To spoil such a wonderful novel as the rest of it proved to be with such a quick end was a discredit, I think, mostly because Dickens' ability to end romantically was prevalent in other chapters: "At about six o'clock of the morning therefore, I leaned over her and touched her lips with mine, just as they said, not stopping for being touched, 'Take the pencil and write under my name, 'I forgive her.'" (Chapter XLIX), as well as the chapter containing Provis' death.
Speaking of romant
icism, I finally cracked open J.S. Foer's very expensive paperback. Fragile to read, as the pages were often tangled upon themselves, but interesting to look at. The narration was poetic in a way that Foer is a master at, but the afterword, to me, was the more compelling. This man is a sensitive genius, I swear it, and I love everything he has to say through prose. His soul is beautiful, and he makes being Jewish a profoundly poetic thing. And he should rightly be very proud.
