Snow, sleet, rain and fog...I ran into all those on my drive to class this morning. For those of you just tuning in, I take continuing ed classes at Oxford once a week, which is normally about a 45 minute drive, or an hour with traffic. Today there was little traffic, and when I walked into class, there were only six of us there—out of twenty-five. We spent some time congratulating each other for our determination and grit—and making fun of those who didn't make it.
I'm from Wisconsin, I scoffed. This is nuthin!
Sometimes it's fun being the only American in the class.
And actually, I'm going to miss class next week—I'm leaving Saturday for the States. I'm visiting Daughter Number One, who is recovering from her surgery. She's okay, but her vision is still blurry and she needs to keep her head still.
I'm bringing some books to read aloud to her. If they're any good, I'll write about them.
That reminds me: One thing we talked about in class was whether historical fiction can be relied on for an accurate picture of life during that time. I took the negative view, explaining that a novelist, even a 19th century novelist, will sanitize and condense, achieving verisimilitude rather than an actual accounting of fact. Not that Dicken's London was inaccurate, necessarily, but Dicken's goal was to write a readable novel, not create a historical record of his times.
Any thoughts on that, class?
