Two good, thick books

Bleak House by Charles Dickens is a new favorite book of mine. It reminded me of War and Peace, possibly only because they're both thick and include a lot of characters. This set me to thinking about what I love about War and Peace compared with what I love about Bleak House.

I love War and Peace because the characters are so complex, changeable, capable of deceiving themselves -- just like myself and the people I know. And characters drift in and out of the story like people come and go in anyone's life. I'm interested in these people because I've met each of them, or someone very like each of them.

I love Bleak House because a few seconds after you meet any character you have a perfectly clear picture of her/him in your mind. They're not that probable, but they're fascinating to watch. And every character, and every setting, has got some part to play in the plot. Everybody's a bit exaggerated. I've never met these people in real life, but I'd like to.

And, since one can't help but compare oneself to the heroines of books, it's like this: I'm something like Natalia of War and Peace (selfish and generous of heart and smart and silly all at the same time), but I'd like to be something like sweet, sincere, hard-working Esther of Bleak House, with a little bit of the practical, wise and efficient "old girl" thrown in.

Postscript:
There's an enjoyable miniseries of Bleak House, done by the BBC in 2005. Our friends Todd and Leigh recommended it. We got it over the last week and a half in mailed installments from Netflix. Chad says that when we came to the end of the first disk, with the second one not yet in hand, I made an "ugh" noise as if I'd been punched in the gut. This even though I'd just read the book, and therefore was in no suspense about the plot.

Further note:
The picture-perfection of Dickens characters means that the miniseries may provoke other exclamations, like:

"Mr. Skimpole should look older and more endearingly clueless."
"Sargent George should be taller, and have darker hair."
"That's really not Mr. Turverydrop at all!"
"Where's Mrs. Snagsby, peering out from behind corners? Where's Mr. Jellyby with his head leaned against the wall? Where's the old girl, and her umbrella, and her whole family?"

The BBC can't be blamed, though. The pool of British actors not famous enough to play a grown-up in a Harry Potter movie is limited, and then there's the time-crunch of the 7 1/2 hour (15-episode) miniseries.