Maurice, by E. M. Forster

From time to time I lapse into thinking that I should be reading literature rather than books. I am mindful that there are a number of serious authors with whom I have never successfully engaged, Henry James being the most prominent example, and I went to look for Portrait of a Lady, intending to give it another go. I was sure that we had two copies on the shelf; we may have been married for more than 25 years, but it doesn’t do to rush into weeding the collection to remove duplicates, which is something I did only last summer. It looks as if I managed to get rid of both copies by mistake and a shame-faced search of the Oxfam bookshop did not reveal either of them.

So I went for E.M. Forster instead, another author that I have struggled to like. And I still struggle to like him. I found Maurice rather hard going. Given that it was not published until after the author’s death, when he was safe from criticism of the subject matter, there was little reason for him to be so coy – this is the only book I have ever read which had me thinking wistfully of D.H. Lawrence (yet another author with whom I fail to see eye-to-eye). The effusive introduction to the Penguin Classics edition – and it is a bad sign when I feel I have to read the introduction in case there is something I have missed – went on and on about how beautifully written it is. I agree that it is artfully written but that isn’t the same thing at all. It was all much too “Francesca da Rimini, niminy-piminy, je ne sais quoi” for my taste. 

I bought Howards End at about the same time as I borrowed Maurice from the library, and it is staring balefully at me from the pile of unread books on the corner of my desk.  It doesn't bode well that I was so eagerly anticipating Maurice's end; it may be a while before I engage with Forster again.