I’m afraid I read Trollope like some people read Barbara Cartland. I find the personalities and gossip as irresistible as reading about Arnold’s love child in Us Magazine. Only Trollope’s voice is funny and wry and you don’t have to look at pictures of stars with cellulite. His direct addresses to the reader are very 19-century Margaret Cho, if she wore a frock coat and couldn’t swear or talk about penises.
Here is my blurb, if they’d had blurbs:
“With finely wrought characters engaged in petty ecclesiastical and romantic intrigue, Trollope sets his characters in motion and lets them play out this witty and trenchant social satire…”
I can’t put it down, until it falls on my face when I fall asleep reading it. Which hurts because it’s in a 791-page volume that includes Miss Mackenzie and Cousin Henry.