I have three books in all, all of them were set books for O'level English (UK 1980's ish) I really don't want to start any controversy here but I hate these books with a fiery passion and have never read anything else that these authors have written
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*angst* *mope* *angst some more* *mope poetically*
to:
*angst* *mope* *angst some more* *nose falls off* *mope poetically (and noselessly)*
It also explained how all those 19th century opera heroines could belt out lots of fancy high-register stuff just before dropping dead of *ahem* consumption. Especially since they were all meant to be Women Of Loose Morals (ooh la la).
I don't think I've reread any of the poetry I studied at school either, unless I had it shoved down my throat at uni. They really know how to kill it. Plus I was never going to get on with Wordsworth, and Coleridge just sort of tagged along with him. To be honest, I'd take a nice pissed-off fuck-the-establishment anti-war poem over Lyrical Ballads any day. Well, up to a certain point of grisliness...
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World War ONE battlefields, actually. Wilfred Owen died on 4 November 1918.
The third book is almost certainly La Dame aux Camelias; it fits the description in almost every respect. The only thing it doesn't have are turnstiles. (Maybe you were conflating it with Sons and Lovers by D.H. Lawrence? That features turnstiles and lanterns.)
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Trauma can do odd things to memory, you know.
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