Admittedly, I had never read this partial novel, perhaps out of a total lack of willingness to read an incomplete mystery novel that left me with more questions than answers… Perhaps out of the uneasy feeling that once I read this novel, it would actually sink in, Charles Dickens is most certainly no longer alive nor is he writing anymore. As long as I had a book or two of his that I hadn’t read, there was a sort of illusion that remained, like there were still things to look forward to. Yes, I’m well aware that I’m crazy.
So, here I sit simply trying to accept the fact that I finished a novel I purposely avoided for so many years… And resigning myself to the fact that there is no ending to this splendidly mysterious beginning of a novel. It is fitting, I suppose, that Charles Dickens left the world with one unfinished novel… He’s left us wanting more. My mind is reeling with tons of possibilities of how the story of Edwin Drood was going to end… Oh how sad not to know the actual ending that was planned!
I guess I’ll go read my next novel now, that’ll be my comfort.
So, here I sit simply trying to accept the fact that I finished a novel I purposely avoided for so many years… And resigning myself to the fact that there is no ending to this splendidly mysterious beginning of a novel. It is fitting, I suppose, that Charles Dickens left the world with one unfinished novel… He’s left us wanting more. My mind is reeling with tons of possibilities of how the story of Edwin Drood was going to end… Oh how sad not to know the actual ending that was planned!
I guess I’ll go read my next novel now, that’ll be my comfort.
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