Elegantly boring. I read this book to romanticize my birth month but it was a wrong move. November's about a profound man who narrated the casual ebbs and flows throughout his life. His words manifested the depth of his thoughts so initially, it was good. And if you're like me who's into Victorian aesthetics, it's not impossible to fall in love with his romantic lexicon. But his intense longing for a woman—I tell you—made me so uncomfortable.

November has fair goodness in it but it's simply not for me. The writing was beautiful but then again, it's not for me. Those three stars are to commend this wild attempt of a 20-year old Gustave Flaubert.