Not so much a beloved book as a Revered Author. I tried to like Henry James, I really did. "The Bostonians" was OK, though the most interesting bit was the Penguin Classics introduction to it. I ploughed though "Portrait of a Lady", so slowly and painfully I forgot who the main characters were a couple of times. (Normally, I read /fast/. "War and Peace" took me two weeks.)
Then I tried to read "The Golden Bowl." A couple of chapters in, I ground to a halt and thought about what I'd just read. To whit, a scene, spread over three pages but containing only nine sentences, in which a character walked into an empty room, said, did and saw absolutely nothing, and walked out again, during the course of which the author ruminated vaguely, obscurely and otiosely, with many gratuitous subordinate clauses such as this one, about the character's profoundly boring yet somehow not especially plausible inner life.
I gave up on James, and learned that a revered work of literature can still be just a bit s**t. The other thing I learned from him is how to parody tedious writing.
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You're so vain
I bet you think this sig is about you