I grew weary of the novel about halfway through, which was also the moment it seemed to remember what story it wanted to tell and pulled itself together somewhat. In the end, I finished it while resenting what a tiresome companion it was, too keen on repeating itself.

Some novels have the vim and vigour of a rice pudding but stretch themselves into a full-course meal. ‘The Book of Love’—while it is a smashing rice pudding at heart—is one of them.