I’ve been sick.
Sick unlike anything I’ve experienced in years—not since getting knocked over by Covid in 2021 have I dealt with anything like this. Aches. Sweats. Fever for multiple days. Acid throat, wracking cough. The worst night was so bad that I often couldn’t tell if I was sleeping or awake—seeming to hover, groaning for hours, delirium, suspended in a strange alter-consciousness.
The sickness spanned seven days but started slow. During the middle section I was mostly bedridden.
At times, as the waves of illness abated, I found myself able to sit up and wished for some mental occupation to distract from the physical discomfort.
Backlit screens hurt my eyes, so that eliminated movies and shows and news.
Thankfully: books.
This sickness, then, deserves credit and my appreciation—otherwise I wouldn’t have had the time to read The Count of Monte Cristo:
This was a long book, the longest I’ve ever read. 464,162 words. For comparison: the two longest books in the Harry Potter series, combined, fall short of that length.
What can I say about it?
It’s an epic. One of the greatest novels ever. A tale of love, betrayal, revenge, redemption. It’s an adventure story, a novel of French politics and society, a treatise on Providence, and a study of man’s role as an instrument of judgment. It was moving, joyous, and heart-wrenching—and fun.
Totally recommended!