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Just like Austen's Emma - my reading list is brilliant.
I have Oscar Wilde, Shakespeare, Keats, Robert Louis Stevenson, Herman Melville, Dickens, Victor Hugo, Charlotte Bronte, and all the auto-biographies of people I'm sure are brilliant.
But what's not so brilliant is that I've hardly started.
My main argument was that I hardly have the time. But I started Wuthering Heights recently. Perhaps a rather depressing start, but all the same - it slowed me down enough to realise how much time I actually indeed have.