It’s a little stupid, frankly—even worse than Dickens, if you want to know the truth, who was although sweet at times not exactly somebody who teaches algebra or whatever to the little fuckers that the Victorian towns of the world want stuffed with sentiment and guilt. Anyway, that’s certainly what José has to offer, you know. (The Esau, sorry, Eça character.) But I wanted to color in Portugal, and I didn’t want to do it by keeping that ugly epic about how the goddess of lechery is more compatible with real-man-Christianity than the god of wine, you know. At least José seems, I don’t know, consistent. Straightforward enough. Still, if your average religiously-unmarked vegan talked about sinners and killers like your classic medieval Franciscan that Victorian Catholics want turned into a bloody statue, he’d probably end up in jail, or something, you know. And, sure, some of the stories will probably be, you know, Dickens stories…. Charles Bingley stories, basically…. Oh Rosa, my rose; the only rose in all of Portugal—at least that I fuck, (chuckles), I mean…. Hey, where you going? We can’t all be like those damn poetasters you know! It’s not the real world, honey bun; it’s not the real world!

…. That’s the thing about things that are like Dickens: sometimes they’re “good” literature, but not always; sometimes they’re “popular” in one or another sense, but not always…. And, Sometimes!, they’re worth reading, but, you know. 😸

…. I suppose that they’re adventures, if not especially enjoyable ones. Light Victorian lit, as oft as not, isn’t quite good and it isn’t quite enjoyable, but it’s certainly good enough—to be unenjoyable! Thank God I don’t always read the ~good~ crap, you know. But, I got to recolor in Portugal with something that doesn’t make me puke, just roll my eyes, you know.

…. They’re little folk adventures, I guess.