I couldn't figure out if some bits were badly-written or slightly overzealous imitation of the characters on the part of the author. This was an infrequent problem, though. Overall it was interesting and quite penetrative. I think the more affecting parts of the book were down more to the content than the writing style.

I was interested in finding out more about Assia; the telling of her I found to be hopelessly indulgent.

Main issues:
- far too sycophantic, especially when dealing with Kant
- far too many grammar errors. The number of commas I had to add, remove, and replace was obscene.

On the other hand, this book sent me on my merry way to discovering more fully Schopenhauer, Kierkegaard, Frege, and Heidegger, which I am very happy about. Worth the read for that alone.

What can I say? I have never cried so much for a book in my life. I was wary when I started: as with all classics, I was concerned that those who praised it only did so because everyone else does and always has, and that I'd find myself disillusioned and disappointed by the end of the first page ... but that didn't happen. And even though I knew all along Anna was going to die (how amazing an experience would it be to read this for the first time not knowing? I wonder if it's even possible to do that these days) I couldn't believe it until it was too late ... I was entirely swept up by every misery, every concern. I adore how Tolstoy weaves debate into dialogue, how this book became not just a story, not just an examination of the unbearable discomfort of being experienced by all, but also a treasurebox of ideas, momentarily relieving me from the tragedy and getting me to think about all sorts. And I don't think I've ever been so delighted as I was with Kitty and Levin's wedding and the fumbling with the rings, or the proposal; never so wrenched as during Nikolai's death, until Anna's breakdown and having to watch and feel her hurtling to her end. This is incoherent and I don't care - I am utterly overwhelmed by this amazing, amazing book. I almost feel as though it would be disrespectful to exhibit any level of composure at this stage.

I can't get over how awesome this is? Alison Bechdel called it 'a scathing and meticulously documented autobiographical triumph', which is VERY TRUE.

I really enjoyed this. I was concerned that it would suffer some awful, irreconcilable flaw that would entirely negate the delight I felt at its subject matter - but that wasn't the case (despite the worryingly A-level first line of the blurb - apparently there are lots of similarities between Blake and Nietzsche, AND lots of differences too! But I digress). This was extremely interesting, and worthwhile. I confess some parts of it went over my head, but I am more than happy to read it again and again until it all makes sense to me. This is fabulous.

I've not the words. Just go and read it.

What's all the fuss about? This is the only time I've known McEwan to be anything resembling mundane. I'm used to his trajectories being rather more than meandering-trundling-meandering-trundling-meandering-URGH-trundling.

Once again I find the bookswellread cataloguing system lacking: I could not finish this book. There should be an option for that.

Admittedly my expectations were high, so there was a large chance of disappointment. Having attended a Tracy Chevalier talk about this book, found her to be gracious and genuine, AND nursed a frantic passion for William Blake for quite some time ... I think the only thing that could have lifted them yet further would have been if I'd read Girl With A Pearl Earring and found it to meet its hype.

I feel I should make it clear here that I didn't hate this book; I just found it unbearably pedestrian. I could have continued reading it, but the thought of all the fantastic books I have not yet read that I could be reading instead of this was more than I could bear. What carried me through the first two hundred and fifty pages was curiosity: I wanted to see Blake through the eyes of those who were there; I wanted to find out more about him. I found nothing of value; Chevalier's characterisation of the man made him little more than a stereotypical Disney benevolent father-figure. I really resent that. I'm sure those who lived alongside Blake probably did connect intensely and wonderfully with him, but Chevalier's representation of this lacked subtlety, and any portrayal of anyone's encounter with Blake was overblown, worthless, far too frequent to be at all precious; above all, mawkish. The whole 'Come here, my children, and read my songs with me' thing just came across like a stumbling realisation of a naive, emotionally-stunted sprog's deepest intellectually-correct desires. Said sprog could be anything up to thirteen; I do not expect such immaturity from serious artists.

And on top of that, there was absolutely nothing in the story to save it. The characters surrounding Blake did not develop beyond Everymen, so I couldn't care about them, and there was nothing much resembling a plotline. The constant knowing references to Piddle in particular ground against me - yes, Tracy, I know it's quaint: I have lived in Britain my entire life. And I think that's what it comes down to: this book suffers irredeemably for its author's Overenthusiastic American Syndrome. I wouldn't have thought this at all of Chevalier having met her, knowing she has lived here for twenty-two years ... but there we are. The premise of the book remains one of interest; it's unfortunate that it was executed so crudely. I intend to explore the books listed in the bibliography, but I expect that is where the good that I will take from this book will be exhausted.

There are lines so beautiful that everything is changed by them ... this book makes my soul ache. I cannot praise it enough. I will not try to.