It’s the birthday of one of the great Victorian novelists, George Eliot (a.k.a. Mary Ann Cross Evans, 1819-1880), known for brilliant novels such as Silas Marner (1861) and Middlemarch (1871-72), but whose birthday this year falls on Thanksgiving and therefore will not receive the attention that is her due. But for goodness’ sake, if you only read one thing the rest of the year, make it Silas Marner, the story of a miserly, gold-loving recluse who ends up rearing an abandoned little girl with gold hair (get it? Gold??) , and it is heartwarming as all get out, whatever my mother-in-law says about it. (Being forced to read things in high school isn’t always all it’s cracked up to be.)

And yesterday was the birthday of British novelist Dame Beryl Bainbridge (1932-2010), who did not receive the attention that is *her* due because of pre-Thanksgiving travel, but if you love tautly crafted, intensely dark, Booker-nominated fiction, then Bainbridge is your woman.

Happy Thanksgiving to all and sundry! I’m grateful for family, books, and fireplaces, and for everyone out there who also loves books and will sometimes have conversations right here about it. Thank you. Go eat turkey.