I'm reading The Corrections at the moment, months behind everyone else of course, but at least I've got there. I found it at a friend's beach house, devoured a third of it and then, sadly, had to leave it on a chair. I bought it when I got back, but managed to completely forget another friend's birthday, and handed it over with a heavy heart. The third time our paths crossed has been luckier; halfway through, and it still hasn't disappeared.

Dear Lordy but it's good. So good that it makes my humble ambition of writing a book (one day, when I've lived a bit more) wither a little. Why go through the mundane and tortuous process of birthing a book when such monsters of intellect, character and humanity walk amongst us? I think every writer gets this though, when reading someone marvellous. Still. I salute you, Jonathan Franzen . I admire you, and the other (mostly) American writers, like DeLillo, who are re-mysticizing our lives in Western suburbia, making the stories of the present rival those of the past.