Thumbs up for Bridget Jones’s Diary by Helen Fielding. Chick lit.
No one can be more surprised than I that I did not hate this book, or Bridget, as I thought I was likely to. The book is generally amusing and contains some very funny bits. Bridget herself, who a) smokes too much, b) drinks too much, c) places too much importance on finding a man, and d) has insane ideas about what is the proper weight for a woman, is redeemed by being just self-aware enough to know recognize at least a, b, and c, and be funny about them. An enjoyable trifle after the hideous Consider Phlebas bog-down of the past few weeks.
The rich, divorced-by-cruel-wife Mark – quite tall – was standing with his back to the room, scrutinizing the contents of the Alconburys’ bookshelves: mainly leather-bound series of books about the Third Reich, which Geoffrey sends off for from Reader’s Digest. It struck me as pretty ridiculous to be called Mr. Darcy and to stand on your own looking snooty at a party. It’s like being called Heathcliff and insisting on spending the entire evening in the garden, shouting “Cathy” and banging your head against a tree.
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