Jane Austen Blues

I often say that Anthony Trollope ruined me for lesser books.  After completing one of his novels, I often struggle to find something else to read that measures up to his superior writing.  Now that I’ve finished Mansfield Park, I am having the same dilemma.   I’ve picked up and put down four different books today.  It’s not the quality of the books themselves because all of them come highly recommended.  It’s just that after the decorous behavior of Miss Price and the word precision of Miss Austen, everything else seems tawdry.

A Tree Grows in Brooklyn was too gritty.  Bud, Not Buddy too sad.  White Fang too bloody. Even the highly touted One Thousand Gifts came off as histrionic.  Obviously, I need some kind of therapy. Cyrano de Bergerac may be just the ticket.