I immersed myself in a Henry James novel and then tried to review the book. This is what happened to my writing style.
To-day I pose to myself the task, at last, the matter, that is, of drawing a conclusion after a considerable interval of ploughing through the pages of Henry James’s “The Wings of the Dove,” accomplished despite the distraction of reading several less lengthy—and more contemporary, at that, works—such detours as are inevitably taken by a person in the course of a momentous, as it were, endeavor.
Of course, the book.., well, the book was quite formidable. But having finished my reading I ought to put it to [...]