Forster is part of a literary posse whose sole aim in writing, it seems, was to bore me silly. Other members include Henry James, Pearl Buck, and George Eliot.
Now you gotta understand, I read a lot. I read all the time. I adore reading . . . but it has to have a point. About half my collection is history, and the other half is fiction and literature.
I have books that I've had since I was a child, and that I re-read periodically, because the story is just damn good ("Peter Pan and Wendy" is one; "The Lord of the Rings" would be another). I've also found books - for example, "White Oleanders" and "She's Come Undone," both Oprah picks - that I couldn't drop fast enough.
Those particular two incensed me. I'm still mad I wasted time reading them under the false pretenses that they were worth a damn, and I want my five hours back.
George Eliot is a severly acquired taste. She was the first to internalize action though.
On a trip home once, White Oleander was the in-flight movie. Not the movie you want to play when there is no chance for escape. It was all that the flight attendants could do to avoid mass suicides. ;-)