Maybe it's just a bad idea to read art histories of eras or schools of art that you find utterly uninteresting and repulsive even, because I found this book to be largely uninteresting and not a little repulsive. Whafuck, you might say! This is the era of the Turtles: Leonardo, Michelangelo, Raphael, and that other guy! And yes, yes, I can concede their momentary genius (the bits on the Sistine Chapel and the Last Judgement are the best parts of this book) but overall, aesthetically, they're really sort of dull. Or maybe it's just that this book is dull. It is a wan sort of book and I've read a lot of these kinds of art histories. If the background and set-up of the art is neat, then you gain a new appreciation for the works. A historical and social background especially helps. But here, save for fleeting mentions, any kind of historical setting is reserved well after 200 pages. By that point I was lost in the humdrum details of commissions, columns, and god-awful religious painting.
It's rare to read a book that makes one wonder, is it the book or is there some sort of satanic presence lingering along the rubbery veins linking my brain and eyeball??!?