Middlemarch, by George Eliot, might be the most difficult book in the world to summarize. But that's what makes it fascinating. Trying to encapsulate the myriad of personal interactions that constitute the backbone of Eliot's narrative is as difficult as trying to pin down the location and spin of an electron in an atom cloud (forgive me folks if I muck the physics, I'm just an EE that likes to hack shit together). The book is a constant reminder of Karen Barad's theory of agential discourse: things are only things because of their relationship to other things, relationships proceed relata, etc. So it goes with the people of Middlemarch. As they try to disentangle themselves from one another and achieve their goals, whether they be to simply help others, sell a horse, or make a medical discovery, the characters bump against each other and send one another flying in dispirate directions. There is no escaping Middlemarch. Middlemarch is all of us. Dorothea is the best person ever and I wish she was real so that I could tell her why I still don't like to walk through corn fields at night. James is a dick but I love the relationship he has with Celia. Get your shit together Lydgate.