Hello St Marks

It took an age for me to finish Guy Gavriel Kay's 'Tigana'; 2 months on and off my reading pile. I'd read something which called this a perfect fantasy novel - just one volume, engaging characters, richly drawn, ripping yarn etc, so I was ready to sink right into it. It's possible my notoriously wretched memory sabotaged me - as I started 'Tigana' I was deflated by a niggling familiarity (have I read this before?). Still don't know, but it came together for me in the end. Great female characters, great everything characters, actually - old, young, men and women, wizardy and not. I recollect where I heard about Guy - on Nancy Pearl's 'Book Lust' podcast - so it must have been Nancy who called it 'perfect'. Nancy has never found a book she didn't like but she's a famous library reviewer goddess, so it's still high praise.

Book 9 of Sookie Stackhouse's vampire saga is now under my belt, and it appears that there are more to come. I had a notion that this was the last book in the series, which added some frisson to the read, but the story ended with Sookie out of one pot of trouble and looking sideways at another, so it's not over yet. With book 9 I proved how fun and forgettable these lovely books are: with two thirds read I left it at M's house, where it was lost under a pile of kids's books.. for 5 weeks. When I recovered it I started right back at the beginning and enjoyed it just as much on the second read as the first, since I'd forgotten almost all of it. Perfect.

Second best book of the year: 'We Need to Talk About Kevin' by Lionel Shriver. Apparently this is a popular book - I picked it off the A&R Top 100 shelf and now find it on reading group lists. I have to say this does not endear me to a book, it takes the gloss of discovering something wonderful, but so be it. This book was a beautiful, distressing journey, a perfectly crafted reveal. I was completely in Shriver's power and just gave myself over to it - which was delicious given the sloppy casual way I've been reading lately. 'Kevin' is written as a collection of letters from the mother of a schoolyard mass murderer. I know another reader would have loathed this mother, but I was on her side. She didn't fall in love with her son as she was sure she should, then couldn't like him. Did he go bad because she couldnt find it in herself to love him, or was guilty detachment a reasonable response to this damaged, sociopathic kid? The mother's voice is s...