There are no words as to how absolutely fantastic this book is. Every single sentence is perfectly crafted, the plot brilliantly balanced, and just so jam-packed with stuff that I want to spend hours and hours unpacking it all and talking and writing about it, but I don't even know where to start.

What Isherwood has created is a character that is brutally human; to use the usual 'realistic' or 'flawed' would be an understatement and a disservice. George is a person dealing with a silent grief that he's unable to share, almost revelling in his detachment from the world and his deep loneliness. One of the most heartbreaking (and human) moments for me was his sadness when he forgave Doris, simply because moving on from his hatred for her meant one less thing that connected his world to Jim.

This was a perfect example of a book finding you at the right time. The book had been on my radar pretty much since the film came out (I was 14 at the time, so I don't feel bad that I found out about it via billboards for a movie) and has been bumped up my reading list in the last few months or so. For starters, many of the themes tackled are extraordinarily relevant today - the way George talks about attitudes towards minorities, for instance, seemed almost uncomfortably modern, and in many ways highlights how little progress has been made in the last 50 years. (And sorry to break it to you, Mr Isherwood, but people are still writing endless stories about heterosexuals.) As a Brit currently at university in the states, still revelling in this new experience of being 'out', it was definitely a case of the-right-book-at-the-right-time.

And then the end? The end?!

I won't reveal it, because I don't want to spoil it, but it was just... perfect. I can't quite comprehend how it managed to be so wrong and so right at the same time, so fulfilling and yet one of the saddest things I've ever read.

In short: a true work of art, and a hugely valuable contribution to queer literature.