Disappointing. 'Middlemarch' is one of my favourite novels and one which I know - or used to know - quite well. That Rebecca Mead's curious blend of literary criticism, biography and autobiography has made me want to go back to read George Eliot's novel again is, for me, its greatest achievement. The truth is that the idea of 'The Road To Middlemarch' ended up being far more interesting than the book itself. There is nothing wrong with Mead's account of Eliot's life, and some of her analysis of 'Middlemarch' is illuminating. The real problem, though, lies in the autobiographical element. Mead reveals little of real interest about herself and, most importantly, fails to make enough significant connections between the novel, her reading of it and her life. These three elements sit uncomfortably beside each other without any sense of how each illuminates and informs the other. So what promises to be a book which is about the significance of reading and our relationship with books ends up being unsure of what, exactly, it is trying to do. It's not so much 'lit memoir' as 'bit memoir'.