So I am reading the House at Riverton. Beautiful, gripping, atmospheric stuff. I feel a bit bad as I assigned my student Middlemarch. As he will learn from Middlemarch: such is the way of things. I did give him Brideshead Revisited (I sent him on a bit of a Catholic author, Graham Greene/Evelyn Waugh adventure) before I sent him spiraling into the 19th century. And I will shore him up with Hemingway once he is done.
My other student is about to enter the violent stormy heart of Wuthering Heights as an antidote to her summer reading of I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings--a gorgeous, raw nerve, screeching tire sort of story. Only Emily Bronte will be able to move her out of the desperate South.
I, meanwhile am wandering through the early 20th century countryside with Kate Morton. It is strangely at odds with the bright blue water and pale yellow beach. But perfect too. When I look up from the misted walkways and the rustle of silk, I am here. The sunny blue water is extra splashy, extra bright, the sand is extra sandy, the salt is extra tart and the great, green turtles are extra turtley in comparison.