But then there are the novels, and if I can’t quite agree with Rebecca Mead, who in her new book MY LIFE in MIDDLEMARCH, characterizes Eliot’s landscape descriptions as ‘sensually precise,’ there are nevertheless few writers so masterly at describing how landscapes and experiences and other people make us think and feel. Eliot is the Rembrandt of our interior lives, and there have been few novelists since who equal her in that.
Though this book can hardly be called new, I couldn’t close without mentioning George Eliot’s Middlemarch. After years of having this book recommended to me, I finally decided to read it and found it as brilliant as everyone says. Eliot’s understanding of human quirks and follies is pitch-perfect: she lays us bare with humor and scalpel-insight, but not without empathy.
Madeline Miller’s Year in Reading.