I confess, I like plot. Rare is the book (among them anything by Marilynne Robinson) that captivates me when nothing really happens in it. In reading Dombey and Son, I feel like I’ve begun a long (940 page) journey by train. I believe we are going somewhere worthwhile, but I’m not yet sure where. The first 170 pages, so far, have simply been Mr. Dickens introducing me to the passengers, some of whom I’ve already forgotten. Reputation, and that first paragraph, keep me from debarking at the next stop. For now.
