Reading De Mille's Strange Manuscript has put me in the mood for more 19th century adventure/fantasy/sci-fi novels . . . so I've started Jules Verne's A Journey to the Centre of the Earth. So far, I've been struck by the importance of books within the narrative. The eccentric uncle finds impetus for adventuring by means of a book, and, when our protagonist and his obsessed uncle arrive in Iceland, much is made of books and the Icelandic penchant for reading and studying:

we think that books instead of being locked up in cupboards, far from the sight of students, should be distributed as widely as possible. The books of our library are therefore passed from hand to hand without returning to the library shelves perhaps for years.

I've also downloaded Arthur Conan Doyle's The Lost World for some summer reading fun. That's not to say I've left off reading Sherlock Holmes. No, I'm still indulging in the King and Conan Doyle Holmes experience, moving on from O Jerusalem and The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes to Justice Hall and The Sign of Four. The trouble is, I usually experience my Holmes-indulging right before turning off the lights and catching those all important forty winks . . . and Holmes is not the most restive character to be imagining whilst trying to snooze. Perhaps I should fit in more Holmes fixes during the day instead?