...the words go galloping--winding on and on until the words said the reader...."To turn about, to abstract, to salute, to celebrate."
"Love" seems to me something which is impossible to define, to grasp. Centuries of authors, of philosophers, have tried to do so in vain. There is always something left to be said. As in death, love is a topic of infinite discourse. As Tolstoy echoes in the mouth of Anna Karenina's titular heroine: ...
I do not know how to give this book a number of stars...I am sure that somewhere, there is an audience for it. Certainly, it deeply affected me, although negatively, so does that make it worthy of recommendation? For me, it was two stars, I would not have picked it up had I known the content. Howeve...
Consistently pretentious and often florid, while at the same time displaying a raw honesty that I found intriguing. I can't make up my mind whether I liked this or wanted to roll my eyes until they popped out of my head.
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