Like he fancies himself as a modern Socrates: 'I know nothing. He's like one of those people who is humble just so he can wait around to be applauded for being humble. I just don't buy into his self-deprecation. Then there's Dorrigo Evans who, despite the flowery language and metaphors floating around, feels like a Gary Stu worthy of some YA books I've read. Or perhaps I'm just jealous and wish I had wondrous nipples I didn't realise it was something I was missing out on until now.

'wondrous'? Forgive me if I'm somewhat skeptical. But I guess when you strip it down, The Narrow Road to the Deep North is yet another war story with plenty of gore and sadness it achieves differentiation by waxing poetic about life, love and ears. If the story had been less dressed-up with fancy trimmings, in my opinion it would have been better, had no Man Booker Prize, and sold far fewer copies. A woman's ear is an invitation to adventure? Give me a break.

How can you criticise a work that sets out to tell such an horrific story of war and violence? But this book is drowning itself in its own pretentious language. It makes me feel bad saying this about a book which was clearly inspired by the author's father's own experiences on the Burma death railway. I guess I'm inviting haters and trolls by reviewing this much-loved Booker Prize winner, but the eye rolls started somewhere halfway through chapter one and they just wouldn't stop. 'I shall be a carrion monster, he whispered into the coral shell of her ear, an organ of women he found unspeakably moving in its soft, whorling vortex, and which always seemed to him to be an invitation to adventure.'

From the narrow road to the deep north