Lion of English Literature Scourge of English LiteratureIt was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way - in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.
Renowned curator Jacques Saunière staggered through the vaulted archway of the museum's Grand Gallery. He lunged for the nearest painting he could see, a Caravaggio. Grabbing the gilded frame, the seventy-six-year-old man heaved the masterpiece toward himself until it tore from the wall and Saunière collapsed backward in a heap beneath the canvas.
First of all, yes, and second of all, Dan Brown can do a hell of a lot worse. And has. I know of what I speak, unfortunately. Dickens created some of the most moving scenes in the history of literature. The only thing Angels and Demons ever moved was my -- well.
First of all, yes, Dan Brown is shit. But so is Dickens. Dickens is shit. So is Jane Austen. The only difference between the two is if you say Dan Brown is shit you're a genius and if you say Jane Austen is shit you're a troglodyte.
I've read every Dickens novel your average guy on the street can name, and then some, and this is total crap. He was quite good at exactly this. Hurts to see George Eliot say that. I don't find any of those criticisms terribly convincing. Dickens' greatest fault was his occasional over-over-verbosity. His characterizations were often brilliant and almost always very apt. They were essentially stereotypes, but there's nothing wrong with that.“He scarcely ever passes from the humourous and external to the emotional and tragic, without becoming as transcendent in his unreality as he was a moment before in his artistic truthfulness.”