“And, of course men know best about everything, except what women know better.”

I took it upon myself the challenge of reading a book centered and themed of adult life. As expected, the undertaking of reading Middlemarch brought a new light to my understanding of complex emotions that arise from more intricate and sensitive causes. The sheer values resonating throughout the story were so rich in character and emotions, in all their genuine glory. The plot is based on the intertwining lives of people living in the town called Middlemarch of the early 19th century when ideals of society was constantly shifting.
Perhaps it had been Dorothy’s kindred spirit and compassionate view of others as well has her marked human signs of vulnerability and pain, or Lydgate’s unfortunate and sympathetic situation due to one mismatched event of ever meeting his wife, or the quirky and loyal relationship of Fred and Mary that made this book so special and dear. For me, my personal bias most definitely would be the honourable and noble love Will Ladislaw harboured for Dorothy and his occasionally unconstrained outbursts of expressions. Sharing in Lydgate’s affinity for research and scientific pursuits was enjoyable too, that is, until they were ruined by a girl who seemed to be immune and devoid of any sensibility or projection of real life.
Upon reading this, I viewed my mother differently. For the first time, I thought about parents not as parents, but human beings who once experienced (and could experience) such well-drawn emotions George Eliot had created. Admittedly, it was not a exciting moment as much as it was enlightening to think about the inner life-insecurities, fear, anxiety, even hate- and untold secrets shared in marriage between two people. And so I say to leave this with the thought that someday, I will truly understand my mother and relate to the pains and joys brought upon by loving another. For now, I’ll comfortably lean back and wonder.


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