“Look,” I said, sloshing out the last of the wine, some of which actually made it into my glass, “there is simply no question that by any objective standards, Dickens is a better writer than Dan Brown. That ought to be obvious even to a moron in a panic.” I wagged the admonitory finger. “It’s not elitist to say so. It’s not snobbish and it’s not a criticism of your choice of beach-read. I’m just saying…”
“…you’re just saying that hating every word of Little Dorrit would do me more good than enjoying The Da Vinci Code.”
I paused. I don’t like to be interrupted. It makes me cranky.
“Oh, go and boil your-hic-your head,” I told my mother. And having delivered that witty rejoinder, I slipped unconscious under the table just as the groom stood up to make his speech.
Very cool Mark Bastable article on reading the classics at BibloBuffet.