A wry, poignant experience lies just beneath the surface of dry academia in these pages. Reading it feels like a cynical old professor remembering why they fell in love with literature. Possession invites you to fall in love with many things besides literature too - its timid protagonist, Victorian poetry, mythology, the internal worlds of quiet wives, Brittany, loud American scholars and their English disapprovers, the archeological study of those who devote their lives to a single historical figure, and the ridiculousness of it. Works are often called 'love letters' to their subject material but Byatt was mad enough to make Possession not only literally dozens of love letters, but sprinkle in multi-page love poems as well.

Possession is not, however, romanticised. Byatt is not wanting for a romantic turn of phrase of course, but Roland often has to think about ticket prices and rent in the middle of his international treasure-hunt. The threat of being swept up into false levels of passion is ever-present in both timelines yet the characters are always damningly aware of it. Both Christabel in the 1800s and Maud in the novel's present grapple with whether one can love without losing oneself. This titular question of possession is raised in myriad ways: though bonds of marriage and parenthood, through secrets and their uncovering, through the scholars who hoard every letter a dead poet penned and their widows who burn them. Byatt even flirts with literal possession thanks to the Victorian obsession with séances. At each junction, we are made to reckon with how much and how willingly we give ourselves away. By juxtaposing the parallels between our casts in each timeline, Byatt explores both the consequences of giving oneself away and of holding back.

On a less grandiose but no less important level, Byatt is a master of endearing us to unlikeable characters. Chapters devoted to secondary characters feel tangential, yet shine a light on inner convictions which force an appreciation for even the most meek or abrasive (looking at you, Cropper). This generous and empathetic method of revealing character resonates beautifully with the way our heroes delve through layer after layer of the scandalous secret lives of Victorian poets.

Thankfully, Byatt also knows when not to indulge in a tangent. Far from the dusty library of the first pages, this treasure-hunt-style plot crescendos into a more dramatic action scene than I would have believed. And yet, in its final moments of revelation, you feel you could hear a pin drop.

At the risk of sounding like a study guide, I encourage readers to keep an eye on imagery surrounding whiteness (the literal colour, not the race). Whenever someone started talking about how white Christabel or Maud looked, be it about purity, beauty, or frigidity, I noticed it would illuminate something about where either the speaker or object was sitting on the possession question. Also apples, though I'd have to read again to say why beyond the superficial temptation connotation - they cropped up a lot.

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