Well, I finished reading Kidnapped by Robert Louis Stevenson this weekend. I had an English teacher who once said if Shakespeare were still alive, she would woo him. I don't think I'd stand much of a chance against Mrs. White, and anyway, bigamy is illegal in this country, so I profess here and now that, in this theoretical world where dead writers have come back to life, Robert Louis Stevenson is the object of my utmost desire.
Kidnapped takes place in Jacobite Scotland and the narrator is David Balfour, whose jerk of an uncle tries to sell him into slavery in the Carolinas so he can't inherit the Shaws estate. David ends up on a boat for the Americas, but (luckily?) he and the evil nasty crew who kidnapped him are shipwrecked before they go far, and David and his friend Alan (who is wanted by the law) set off to get the former home and the latter to France.
What I liked best about this book was the ending. Without giving much away, Alan saves the day by being a shameless lying con man. It's a very happy ending, but not a very moralistic one, which I adore because nobody sees that coming. I like it when people's questionable talents come into play with regard to the big picture of the book. To me that's what takes a character from being someone in the book, to being someone who needs to be in the book.
Obviously Kidnapped is an amazing piece of literature as well as a piece of history, but beyond that RLS's writing is just so no-nonsense. He says exactly what he wants to say using the words he wants to use in as many words as he needs to say exactly what he wants to say. (That was an awesome sentence.) Admire him. Adore him. Worship him. But keep your hands off, because he's the deceased love of MY life and you can't have him.
Check out the book -- I'm now reading Unnatural Causes by P. D. James. She's her own kind of genius. And check out my brand new twitter page (link on the right). As for this post? Tweet me, sweethearts. ;)
Hearts and loves!