This book was a very odd read. It wasn’t thrilling or enthralling. It wasn’t exciting or horrific. Absolutely nothing about the plotline stands out to me. But…I continued to read it a bit at a time and as it progressed, the bits kept getting bigger until I couldn’t put it down until I finished it. And before you ask, no it wasn’t one of those marathon to finish just so I can say I’ve read it types.

This is phenomena can only be explained by the writing of E.M. Forster. I have never read anything by him before and had no idea what to expect. I’m quite certain that the societal meanings of this book went way above my head, mostly because I don’t care about societal treatises, but the people in it did not. It was obvious to see that if Forster wanted us to pull one thing out of this novel it was that we must strive to listen, learn from and connect with other people – no matter how different they are from us. His writing is breathtaking, and before I was a hundred fifty pages in, I had more little stickies marking quotes than I knew what to do with. I forced myself to put the stickies away and just read.

I can’t say whether or not I enjoyed anything about this novel other than the descriptions of the people, the land, and of course Howard’s End. But Forster has a voice which walks into a room and softly whispers of England at its finest, and no one can deny the power in that.