Wakefield

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  “In some old magazine or newspaper I recollect a story, told as truth, of a man—let us call him Wakefield—who absented himself for a long time from his wife. The fact, thus abstractedly stated, is not very uncommon, nor, without a proper distinction of circumstances, to be condemned either as naughty or nonsensical. Howbeit, this, though far from the most aggravated, is perhaps the strangest instance on record of marital delinquency, and, moreover, as remarkable a freak as may be found in the whole list of human oddities. The wedded couple lived in London. The man, under pretense of going a journey, took lodgings in the next street to his own house, and there, unheard of by his wife or friends and without the shadow of a reason for such self-banishment, dwelt upward of twenty years. During that period he beheld his home every day, and frequently the forlorn Mrs. Wakefield. And after so great a gap in his matrimonial felicity—when his death was reckoned certain, his estate settled...

The Book I Love To Hate

"1984" by George Orwell is the book I love to hate.

Orwell gave us a masterpiece, pure genius as a kind of interpretation and commentary of where we were headed as a society--and we did arrive . . . not exactly a prophetic work, but we've been holding our breath since it's publication because many images are startling.

No matter how many times I've read it, I always root for Winston. I have to. For all that he symbolizes for "any man," I ache for him to win. But he never wins, and I hate that.

I'll probably read it again some day.
And perhaps I'll be hoping things change for Winston.
But they won't. And I know that.

And I hate that.

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