Who doesn't kove to sit down on a cold windy night and read some good old fashioned Charles Dickens? Uh...ME! My school assignment for Christmas break just happened to be a Tale of two cities, and sadly, I'm not what you would call "Devouring" it. For one thing, Dickens NEVER GETS TO HIS POINT! I mean I have never read any book where one man will take up two very long chapters explaining something that is not even VAGUELY related to the story. The only OK book by him was "a Christmas Carol" whcih was relatively short.
Dickens would take two short sentences like "Beebo Appleby walked into the room, looked out the window and patted his jacket pocket. He heard his mother's footsteps approaching and turned to the door to greet her." into (Note: if you do not wish to read the whole paragraph, I will mark the ending of it woth #)"Beebo Appleby, a strange man with wily hair that overgrew past his eyes, a crooked nose that had been broken more than one too many times, and sat in distorted form on his young face, and freckles beneath his left eye, peered out of the curiously shaped old window. It had a rigged shape along the bottom and a sill with years of wear and torn visible. The arched top gave it a most curious look, not unlike a constantly changing bubble from the ocean, ever going up, ever changing, never the same. Built by his father, who knew nothing about building such things and building at all, it was several inches shorter than the wall where window and wall should greet, so cold air was omnipresent in the dismal little room. The room held only a couch that was colored with old green fabric, similar to that of dying grass on a cold winter’s day. This had also been built by his father, for alas, he was so stingy with his wallet, that even the thought of looking at it would make him pale to the face. He gave it an odd slanted shape, making the art of sitting particularly and very difficult. The grim outside world was barely visible through the sot smitten glass of the said window, and even if it was clear, he would not have easily seen through it, as the steaming breath would fog up the icy window. What he did not see was the wet, grey, weather torn streets bearing one solitary run down carriage from the year seventeen hundred and seventy-six, pulled by four, black as night, mangy old horses, chewing nervously at their bits. He muttered some barely audible words as he assuredly touched his yellow, coffee-stained, jacket pocket that had a hole on the small corner portion of the seam which he had received when fighting off a rabid dog to save his forever and always true love. He winced at the thought and rubbed his left arm where the dog had pierced a similar hole right above his wrist. These were not fresh wounds, as he did not receive them yesterday, or the day before, or the day before that, nor did he receive them this year, a year ago, nor even the year before that. When suddenly, out of the blue, he heard his caressing mother’s familiar footsteps echoing down the empty narrow hallway just outside his door. He turned swiftly on his heel ( an old habit he received when in the war, where he had been giving none too few beatings, with either the rod, the shaft, this fist, the whip, or anything else the course general could find at hand. He would be beaten in the most sensitive of places, such as his eye, his back, his arm, his legs, or any other appendage for that matter) As he waited, he shifted his cold feet back and forth and forth and back o warm his frostbitten toes and feet, which were completely bare except for two socks and a pair of black, half-pint, boots he wore upon them." #
*Sighs a long meaningful sigh* I wish Dickens would stick to the point.