I keep trying to like Henry James...and it's very possible that this wasn't the best book to force down my own throat. James was good friends with my favorite author Edith Wharton, and I seem to assume that affinity will extend to their books. But while I easily can lose myself in a Wharton novel, Henry James' books seem to drag on every word.

The other problem was that I had watched the movie first. And so I kept waiting anxiously for milestones in the movie and expecting the same things to happen--but they don't. Because one is a movie and one is a novel. Different medias equal different stories.

The story focuses around Maggie and her father Adam--and their respective spouses, and what their respective spouses do with each other with Maggie and Adam are hanging out. This seems a pretty clear cut plot, but instead there's just hundreds of mile-long sentences (and many a semi-colon)to get you to the end of the book.

For me, this book trudged unwillingly towards it's conclusion. The introspection of each character could have induced claustrophobia. They didn't just "walk in room." They contemplated the room, the door, the motion of walking, the disturbances to the air that the walk could induce, the motions of walking, the choice of walking, and--for the sake of human kind--what would happen if they didn't walk. For every action, there seemed (though I probably exaggerate) three pages of introspection.

I've read elsewhere that the book benefits from the reread...I might give myself a bit of break before I try that. Maybe read some Wharton instead.