Unrequited love is, undoubtedly, one of the most commonly used tropes in literature nowadays. With movies, books, tv shows, and the like all portraying it one way or another, it's quite a surprise that people haven't grown tired of it yet—and that, perhaps, is the essence of it. Who could turn away from a poor heart pining for a love that cannot be theirs? Unrequited love is universal in its scope and in its reach; it affects (or has affected, or will affect) nearly everyone.

When I started reading this book, I cannot help but find myself in its pages. Werther spoke out to me, in a way that certain characters do. His words were my words; his actions, my actions—how can I stop myself from being fully absorbed in this novel when I already have been? Not only was my heart affected, but also my mind. The prose was just so inspiring, the wording nearly impeccable. When I said that Werther's words were my words, I was flattering myself: I could never hope to achieve such proficiency in writing. One could feel the emotions spilling out of the pages, one could see nature, so vividly described in this novel, in all her outstanding glory. Usually, I'm not too keen on long paragraphs of description, but the language used was so beautiful, I can't help but be moved by these scenes in nature, just as Werther has been.

And, perhaps even without the lyrical prose, I still would've been moved. Werther is the focal point of this novel—that and his all-encompassing, all-consuming love for someone that can't be his. This is the cliché of all clichés, but one can't help but be moved, especially when one has felt the sharp claws of this kind of love.

And I have, and perhaps this book is not that great at all, and thus it is only myself and my experiences that made it seem so great—but what of it? This books speaks to me, and that is all that matters.