Anyone who professes to know me at all, anyone who's known me more than a fortnight, knows that my favorite male author is Charles Dickens.
There should be a limit on the amount of talent a single human being can posses at one time. I have always believed this. I always will. It is my only comfort in my own incompetency. And Charles Dickens, in all his sheer genius of mind, is a prime example of this: he unarguably had more than his fair share of talent. His prose is stunning, beautiful, rich, and fluid. He has the power to suck a reader completely out of his day-to-day world and transplant him firmly into his own literary one. His characters are all miniature works of genius: some hilarious, some tragic, some dear and wonderful, and some strange to the point of lunacy. His stories are magical, at least in my own wee mind. They have always held that wonder for me. His works are timeless, ageless, magical, ridden with all kinds of hidden Truth. I said once that his "pen was made of pure genius, his ink pressed from the fruits of originality, and his mind full of sparkling creativity" and I believe that still rings most wonderfully true.
What I've Read
Check out Lèrowen's Writing Challenge to find the list of questions!