Ugh, I don't know what it is but Mr. Lawrence bores me to tears. Occasionally I think "hey, that was quite pretty a sentence" and then it falls back to that numbing state where I can't make myself care for the characters or the story or anything else for that matter. I came quite close to finishing this one but it still fell short by about 150 pages. I don't feel the need to torture myself during the Holidays, you know?

BBC Radio 7

You know, the tediousness and language almost drove me to the point of breakdown. Why I continued? Probably the desire to torture myself got hold of me so that I would be more interested in studying than this. Or because of the faint belief that maybe it would get better, at least during the Paris years. It didn't.

Well, maybe I was reading it the wrong way but it felt really long despite its length. Ugh, it almost bored me to death. I did't mind the absurdness, though.

Didn't care too much for the writing style, it just made me confused and forget what the point was. The story didn't draw me in, either.