For the next two weeks, I only allowed myself an hour a day with Lonesome Dove, to prolong the satisfaction of reading it. One night I slept with it under my pillow. I scratched up the margins and read bits aloud.

It was an exhilarating discovery: a short, upsetting, foxy novel published way back in 2001.

George Eliot sustains her inquisition, loves gossip, and rewards patience—the perfect novel.