Failing that, I had better be patient. Or perhaps we can have both "good" and "patient" in the same place - good literature and a patient reader..
I hasten to explain myself by informing you, my friends, of a precipitous and most unsensible purchase which I made lately of a local bookseller. I've picked up a rather hefty (but exceedingly well appointed, I again hasten to inform you) volume, entitled "Jane Austen: The Complete Novels."
Just why have I done this thing, you ask? Because in my more than five decades of life I have never - no, not once - read an Austen novel. Not one. Not one chapter of one, nor one paragraph of one chapter, nor even the slightest, slenderest, most trifling of sentences in one paragraph.
I have, however, watched a couple of BBC Austen adaptations, snickered my way through Lost in Austen, (ITV, right?) and decided that I should take a running jump at the lot of 'em.
Because if I am anything, it is precipitous. I am, it seems, more of a hasty Marianne than a level-headed Elinor. The entire collection of novels in one shopping bag. Foolish. Simply foolish - particularly when I remember that I cut my reading eye-teeth on fairytales, Sturgeon and Edgar Rice Burroughs. No, I don't read him now. But my literary palette still seems to overflow with the very bright colors. Purple amongst them.
I may retreat to my bedroom now, and read a chapter or two of something Austenish.