When a person says to me ‘I think Jane Austen is overrated’, I don’t think ‘I must reappraise Austen’s work immediately!’ My reaction is ‘hmm. Interesting. I think I might now know a bit more about the kind of person you are’.   

Austen is just an example (although, curiously, a common one); you could insert the name of any well-respected writer above. My point is not a point about Austen: it’s about reading, and what it says about us. Namely, that our reactions to the novels we read say more about us than they do about the novels themselves.   

The accounts here are written with this realisation in mind. They are accounts of my experience of reading contemporary fiction. The books that I read are invariably well-reviewed, or prize-winning, or have risen to prominence on the upswell of public opinion. They are, unquestionably, ‘good’. However, this does not mean that I will like all of them. And this, for me, is where the fascination lies. I want to explore the ‘why’ of this dislike (and of my likings, too). This, then, is a space not so much for reviews of books, but for a consideration of the ways in which I am reviewed by books.

Maybe you’re thinking that sounds rather solipsistic; I beg you to think again. For me, it’s exactly how the most interesting conversations about books begin – it is through the ways in which my reading experience differs from yours that we learn most about a book, and about each other. I hope, then, that if you have read the books I write about, you might add your comments. In case you haven’t, I won’t include spoilers – I hope you might be tempted by my accounts to read them too (and then to add your comments!).