Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell was handed to me by a book club member who declared it unbearable, an assessment supported by another member--a martyr of sorts who read the novel to the end out of sheer loyalty to the club. Driven by curiousity, I opened its pages.
The book rambles on, certainly, but each page is a pleasure. My favourite character, of course, is Mr. Norrell, for he is the essence of an English academic. A magician notorious for hoarding books and for ensuring that other budding magicians are put out of practice (or kept under his watchful eye), Norrell is woefully oblivious to the existence of others, or their blatant disdain for him.
Mr. Norrell is so pleasing, in part, because I have met him on several occasions. While garage saling in Vancouver, for example, my brother and I encountered "CD Man," a fellow treasure-hunter with no regard for garage-saling etiquette. I am as guilty of 'hovering' as the next bibliophile, but CD Man brought the art of removing the competition to a whole new level. He would literally block our attempts to peruse, his entire body expanding when needed and always atremble with anticipation. Of course, Brent and I took the opportunity to tickle his Achille's tendon. At one garage sale, I remarked, loud enough to be overheard, "Oh Brent, if only we could find a garage sale like the one last week. Hundreds of CDs--new ones too--being sold at ten cents a piece."
Mr. Norrell also reminds me of a wonderful but quirky professor I once had. The man clearly despised his students: he taught us only because we were a necessary evil in a career that enabled him to divulge in his true passion--Victorian literature. The class was memorable, not only because I learned more than I have in almost any other, thanks to the professor's meticulous lesson plans, but because he was such a character. One day, despite forgetting his notes in his office, he continued to lecture--from the hallway as he ran to retrieve them! He was also known for giving lectures with a strange white substance--chalk dust, perhaps?--streaked across his face.
May the world learn to appreciate its Mr. Norrells--even if book clubs don't.
