Typing on my phone. Internet on desktop is some sort of FUBAR today.
I am up to the part in my book where Marius meets Eponine. I know how the rest of the story goes.
I am going to stop reading it. I have realized that I was fleeing to more cheerful fare. I was not enjoying my time with Victor Hugo
Some thing--some books-- are work, but pleasure at the same time. Reading them is like walking up a steep hill in the wind.
You can feel your heart pounding, you are looking far, you are getting the wind up your nose. It is doing you good. Moby Dick is like that.
The other times I read Les Miserables it felt that way. I don't know why this time is different. But it is giving me nightmares. I need to put it away.
I think I will give myself a good long dose of kind intelligent people doing things. I have a whole stable of such books-- Cambridge Fellows, Cross and Poppy, Aubreyad, and even further back to The Dark is Rising and Joan Aiken.
I am just not as robust as I thought