I have just finished a dreadful book. 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. I suspect I am the only person to have read the Phaidon coffee table book of the century thing cover to cover. This is a character flaw, I know.
I have to give a plug to the best book I’ve read this year. It’s called “What I Loved” by Siri Hustvedt. It is outstanding, a page turner with in-depth art and hysteria references. Brilliant, brilliant, brilliant.
Worst book I have read this year is undoubtedly “Cold Mountain” by Charles Frazier. 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. Who cares about this man and his trip back to Cold Mountain? Why was this book awarded a prize? What possessed the author to make it so bloody long?