Inspiration- Bleak House

I don't remember ever being this sad before that a television serial has finished. Usually I don't get into drama at all, but this...well, this is Dickens. The characters, the plots, the twists...



Though it came out 3 years ago, I have only just now seen the BBC adaption of Bleak House- and OH how I was in love. Well- am in love, and I do have the last episode to go. I think I'm putting it off deliberately!

I love Dickens, though I'll admit I've never read the actual books. I do mean to, certainly, and Bleak House will certainly be the first one. I tried to read it a few years ago when the TV serial came out (I was sans television, pity me) -I tried and tried but just could not get past the first chapter. I've read the first page just now online, and I don't know what I didn't understand, it seems to be plain English to me now. Beforehand I barely understood what was happening.



But I loved Esther Summerson from the moment she appeared on screen. I never ever trusted Mr.Skimpole, not for a moment, but adored Dr.Woodcourt, with his Poe-like face.

(Dr.Woodcourt is a sweet-hearted character, but I can only find this picture!)

And horrible Mr.Smallweed!! Shake me up, Judy!!! Never have I been so repulsed by a character- Philip Davis did an outstanding job. And of course, how adorable Mr.Jarndyce is, and heartbreaking Lady Dedlock- I felt so bad for her, Gillian Anderson was stunning, keeping all that emotion locked behind a corset. Sargeant George, who made me tear-up, he's such a noble man! Villainous Tulkinghorn, and Mr.Bucket, he really grows on you.

An extract to end it with:

My Lady Dedlock's " place " has been extremely dreary. The
weather, for many a day and night, has been so wet that the trees seem
wet through, and the soft loppings and pruning of the woodman's axe
can make no crash or crackle as they fall. The deer, looking soaked,
leave quagmires, where they pass. The shot of a rille loses its sharpness
in the moist air, and its smoke moves in a tardy little cloud towards
the green rise, coppice-topped, that makes a back-ground for the falling
rain. The view from my Lady Dedlock's own windows is alternately a
lead-colored view, and a view in Indian ink. The vases on the stone
terrace in the foreground catch the rain all day ; and the heavy drops fall,
drip, drip, drip, upon the broad flagged pavement, called, from old
time, the Ghost's walk, all night. On Sundays, the little church in the
park is mouldy ; the oaken pulpit breaks out into a cold sweat ; and there
is a general smell and taste as of the ancient Dedlocks in their graves.

Oh, now I really must watch the last episode. Right now!