I read Dracula every few years. In fact, for my money, none of the many Dracula movies quite measures up to the book–although Christopher Lee’s portrayals of the monster will go down in history.
The last time I read Dracula, I was amazed by the things author Bram Stoker can get away with. Great heaping dollops of Victorian schmaltz. It should be unreadable, but it isn’t. In fact, the somewhat strange literary style adds, rather than detracts, to a sensation of being in the attic of a deserted house, all dry and musty, and suddenly thinking you hear someone else, who’s not supposed to be there, coming up the stairs…