So I recently plowed through Samuel Butler’s The Way of All Flesh, which I found langorously enjoyable in the manner that only 19th century clause-heavy English prose can be enjoyable. If you’ve ever gone tubing down a river with a cooler full of beer floating along with you, it’s much like that; one simply cannot hurry, and is instead carried along by the current of meandering thoughts which eventually gets one to a destination. I suspect Mr. Butler would be mortified by this comparision involving sluggish rivers and beer, but thankfully, he’s dead.
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