This book and I have a long and sordid history. This was my third attempt at reading it; the first two, for reasons I found even at the time of abandonment to be completely inexplicable, I could not continue past a certain point. Having completed it, I think the issue was that I hadn't grown to love the characters or care about the story yet ... it is true that it takes some time for that to happen. But when it does, it's massive. I love Tarrou and Rieux fiercely. Grand delights me. I even care about Cottard.

But most of all I love Camus. I love the man who weaves philosophy into literature and creates something that is as intensely urgent now as it was after the Second World War. I love the man who expresses my opinions more completely than I ever found them to be in my mind, and taught me something about myself and those around me, and maintains in spite of everything the belief that men are more often admirable than disgusting: I need to be told that. I do not always agree with him; I think his treatment of Father Paneloux was distinctly Amber Spyglass, and that it undermined his entire ethos: his death was far more the needless destruction of a valuable creature than a triumph over religion. But we can discuss that later when I die and go to the great library in the sky.

I am not feeling articulate enough for this, but never mind.

Could have been amazing - Trocchi clearly talented; sad that need for smack overran this. However, tragedy runs nicely alongside book and its content. Several amazing passages. Skeptical at first that a man could convincingly portray first-person womanhood, particularly in erotic context, but was very wrong. Which was nice.

What can I say about this poem that has not already been said? I want to whisper it to myself every day for the rest of my life.

Exciting in every possible way.

Re-reading seems an unnecessary luxury at the moment, but this is short, and it's in my top three favourite books of all time, and I needed it. This book sets out everything imperative to my being; I can think of nothing as beautiful or as perfect in the world.

Wowzers in my trousers, the writing style was fantastic. However, much of the four out of five is because of that; I was interested in the characters, particularly Estha, but I didn't really care for them much. This reminded me a lot of One Hundred Years of Solitude - somewhat cold, removed; a worthy observation of humanity but not entirely human itself.

Again, this site should rate out of ten, because Great Expectations would get seven. I found it cute, which, while fun and a delight, is not what I read books for. The points at which I was truly engaged were too distant from each other to save this book for me. I don't mean to say that I think it a failure - I don't at all; it just didn't transport me into that stream of terrible beauty that the books I find truly satisfying wrench me into.

Amazing. Isherwood writes with subtlety and flair. Touching, hilarious, painful, very interesting.

I can't find the words for this book yet. It was ... sublime, and disturbing, and glorious, and compelling, and rich, and moving. I hope I can review it more articulately later.

After seeing the du Maurier drama last week it was all too apparent that my ignorance of her works was preposterous and had to end. Thus Rebecca. It was another of those books that rendered me incapable of dealing with anything outside of it for several minutes after each session, made me wander as though in a dream, back to my desk, unable to focus, wholly confused as to why this world I live in exists. It was extremely powerful, and I look forward to reading it again at some point. And I fucking adore Daphne. I would love to meet her.