What a sheer delight for me to get such a treat from D.H. Lawrence’s work. I had previously read The Rainbow, which intrigued me so much that I finished the last half of the book in one sitting during a bus ride. However, Women In Love elevated my experience further. Throughout the course of fewer than five hundred pages, I laughed, I praised, I loathed, I sighed. I deeply sympathised with Ursula, profoundly conflicted about Birkin, completely devastated by Gerald and found myself despised Gudrun as all is unravelled. Though D.H. Lawrence often veered into lengthy ruminations on death, hate and love that tested my patience, the pull of his narrative was too strong to resist. Each chapter left me hungry for more, and before I knew it, I was staying up past midnight to finish the last hundred pages. With Women In Love, D.H. Lawrence has once again woven his spell, winning a devoted admirer for his timeless works.