I am going to make it through this book if it kills me
Meaning any book I happen to be reading at the moment. One goes from the revolting doings of the early Han to the revolting doings of Three Kingdoms, where Cao Cao no more governs with filial duty than anyone else. This all rather reminds me of Claudine at School during the examination:
I installed myself; he looked at me over the top of his glasses and said, 'Ha! What was the War of the Two Roses?' After the names of the leaders of the two factions, I stopped dead. 'And then? And then? And then?' He irritated me. I burst out: 'And then, they fought like ragamuffins for a long time, but that hasn't stuck in my memory.'
(grimly) Onwards. Book 1 of 4 aproaches its end. How in heaven's name did people who wrote by oil lamp or candlelight with brushes or quill pens manage to be so damnably prolix?