I have just finished a dreadful book.Â Dreadful in content and dreadful in prose style. I am so pleased to have polished it off. I feel compelled to finish something once I’ve started it.Â I suspect I am the only person to have read the Phaidon coffee table book of the century thing cover to cover.Â This is a character flaw, I know.
I have to give a plug to the best book I’ve read this year.Â It’s called “What I Loved” by Siri Hustvedt.Â It is outstanding, a page turner with in-depth art and hysteria references.Â Brilliant, brilliant, brilliant.
Worst book I have read this year is undoubtedly “Cold Mountain” by Charles Frazier.Â I took it into hospital with me when I went into labour and two days later when I had my baby I was still wading through it.Â Who cares about this man and his trip back to Cold Mountain?Â Why was this book awarded a prize?Â What possessed the author to make it so bloody long?