The French Lieutenant’s Woman, by John Fowles, doesn’t fit my usual genres. Yes, the novel falls in the category of historical fiction, which I do enjoy. But I rarely appreciate author-to-reader discourses. Fowles’ postmodern flourishes distract from a decent tale of love and class in Victorian England, with a dollop of Darwin.
I grabbed this one off the shelf at the library because it was on one of those “you should read these books before you die” lists being promoted that day. Whoops. I had to renew it twice to finish it, and I’m glad to put it behind me.