I didn't realize how short this was when I picked it up, and in the end I found myself wishing it'd been longer. A good 90% of the book, maybe more, felt like an outline, consisting either of huge swaths of exposition or huge swaths of dialog without a single drop of exposition in between. Neither, IMO, makes for terribly engrossing storytelling without the other; the story lacked balance in its craft. And given the tremendous emotion and power of the one scene that actually felt like a fully developed scene (Ennis in Jack's bedroom with the shirts), I was left feeling a little cheated, wishing the rest of the story had received the same treatment, the same care and attention to detail. 
 I saw the movie first, and several years ago, but it still sticks with me to this day, and actually managed to cast a shadow over the book. The movie was so much more complete and emotionally connective, moved me so effortlessly where the book so often fell flat. Don't get me wrong--it's a beautiful story, the characters barely sketched yet still somehow whole and real and hurting. The setting and scenery received much more attention, by and large, than either Ennis or Jack did, and was also whole and real, with a feeling of the sublime in the Victorian sense of the word: achingly beautiful and frighteningly isolated and powerful. Which is, of course, the perfect metaphor for their relationship, the love they couldn't admit even to themselves. It's a powerful book, but it could have been so much more if it were twice as long.