A lot of stuff that gets nominated for the Booker is so far up its own arse, you need a torch to read it. Why do people feel the need to describe everything in minute detail? Just get on with the story and leave the artistry to the poets, who’ll achieve a greater effect with far fewer words. I shouldn’t be too disparaging. It’s all subjective, of course. But one man’s meat is another man’s poison, and ‘Middlemarch’ damn near killed me.
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