“Men and women make sad mistakes about their own symptoms, taking their vague, uneasy longings sometimes for genius, sometimes for religion, and oftener still for a mighty love.”
I’ve finished it.
And I didn’t love it.
I kept getting caught up in the story only to turn the page and be confronted with a whole chapter about the election of a parish sexton or something, entirely conducted by characters I’ve never met before and who had nothing to do with the story.
I can appreciate that it’s a great work of literature, but not my cup of tea mate. Still, it’s done, it’s finished, I can tick it off the list and I never have to pick up that book again. Great.