Maybe If I Put Some Cheese On It?

For years my wife used to say I would eat anything if there were cheese on it. Last night as I was slogging to the end of "Madame Bovary", I thought about that cheese.

Having now read about a half dozen 19th century classics over the past year, I've come to a preliminary conclusion: My reading cadences for fiction are more in sync with mid-late 20th century. I'm calling this a preliminary conclusion because I'm very interested to hear from anyone who might dissuade me by recommending a pre-1950 novel. My only request: If there is a death scene in any book you recommend, please assure me the end comes in fewer than 10 pages; please!

I'm aware this post puts me in an indefensible position with the canonical police. My justification: My puny blog can surely do no harm to Flaubert, Dickens, or Tolstoy. So call off the dogs. And send me your recommendations.