The happening is quite an ordinary one, nothing too grand, or incredible. The female protagonist, Catherine, is one of the dullest creatures I've ever encountered in literature (and real life, for that matter). The book is not riddled with melodramatic expressions, or epic gestures.
Despite all that (or because, I've yet to decide), it is one of the more compelling books I have ever read.

I adore Henry James' irony, that is most apparent in this book. I love his hopelessly flawed characters. I love his writing style.

I also find it interesting that while compiling his work, Henry James excluded the book because he didn't like it. I have an affinity to the works the artists themselves despised.

As of the time of writing this review, I've yet to read any other of Henry James' works, so I cannot draw any kind of comparison or general opinion non him as an author (other than adoring what he did with Washington Square). I have also yet to read the afterward by Michael Cunningham, will do so after I've read the book a second time.