Re-read.
One of my all time favorite books, that I have probably read about 80 or so times, enjoying it every time.
The reason I re-read it though, this time, isn't that I needed my Bridget fix (and I have been known to enlist friends' help in finding one of the 3 or so copies that seem to float around the house, saying desperately that I "need Bridget" like other people sometimes "need chocolate" or "need a drink") but that I found something strange, and disturbing, that I will go into in the post about Mrs. Tim Christie, by D.E. Stevenson.
Despite something that I find worrisome and stressful and upsetting, fretting about it doesn't detract from the delight of the artifact, the fun of the book itself, so I want to say how much I adore this book. To not like the book would be like saying that you can't like, say, Hills Like White Elephants because Hemingway was a misogynistic jerk, or that Kobe Bryant's 3-point shots aren't beautiful because he has a complicated personal life, and so on. The "art" is separate from the artist.
I still love Bridget Jones' Diary.
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