T. Tembarom

So goes the first step of this project, something called T. Tembarom.  I have finished Elsie's book, and will attempt to discover what this title is and if I can read it still.  More to come.

A few hours later (with interruptions of errands and lunch with Chris) I have discovered this book to be by Francis Hodgson Burnett.  She authored such favorites as The Secret Garden, primarily a children's book author.  But she also wrote some adult fiction, this being one of those.  Am just starting the book, and will give thoughts after I'm done.

It has been over a month now since I started this book, and still I can't seem to finish it.  I have decided to give up once and for all.  Maybe it's the sign of our times, or maybe it's the sign of my own times, who knows for sure.  I found myself only reading it at night because it was sure to put me to sleep every time I picked it up; never has there been a greater cup of warm milk, or hot tea or hot bath before bed so to speak.    

My reason for wanting to do this project and read through these books was to get an idea of what 1920's literature was like; what a window into how they thought then, what their ideals were like.  While I recognize that during that time words were the only pictures they had, I found myself skipping through whole sections that would describe one thing, like how Tembarom got to have his name, or how he felt about his love interest.  It would go on and on for pages it seemed, repeating itself with different phrases or sometimes actually the same words I'd just read.  The concept of this story, how a penniless boy comes to inherit great wealth, did not settle well when he turned his nose up at the thought of all that money - such an unlikely response for anyone poor that it rang false to me.  I tried to suspend the bridge of disbelief here, in thinking that of course this is what everyone would hope their high-ground to be, but at some point it became ridiculous to me. Tembarom must prove himself to the love of his life, a woman who by all accounts in this story could have been his mother for how she "took care of him" and he raved on about it.  I am no light weight for sure, I tend to stick out the worst of story lines and b-rated movies just because I feel committed to seeing the characters through to their inevitably equally bad ends.  In this case, I can honestly say my curiosity has died for this book, and in giving up I am admitting how much I truly do not care about what happens.  And I might add, I cannot recall but maybe a handful of times I have picked up a book and never finished it. My first step into the journey of the 1920's mind has not left me eager for more.  Let's hope it gets better.