You might think I write too much on Vole (no, really).
But amongst the pile of books which turned up in the post today was Volume 12 of George Orwell's complete works. 608 pages. And that's just his output for 20 months covering 1940-1941. Reviews, letters, diaries, essays… every word better than everything I'll ever write, too.
What else turned up?
Alex Wheatle's witty tale of black London adolescence, Brixton Rock (love the echo of the title). It looks great - and a good corrective to the nonsense currently being spouted about African-Caribbean youths by our political masters.
Cornelia Funke's new children's fantasy, Reckless. I should read it in German but I don't have the patience.
Joe Dunthorne's new dark comedy of rural Welsh adolescence, Wild Abandon. I watched the film of his first novel, Submarine, the other day. It's really good: definitely picks up on the tone and narrative voice of the novel, with beautiful photography and performances.
I also picked up a few books with my tokens on Friday: Supergods, Grant Morrison's personal investigation into the cultural hold of superheroes; Jane Rogers' dystopian The Testament of Jessie Lamb (Z for Zachariah for our times?); Simon Morden's Degrees of Freedom (unhealthy academic geek saves the world - ideal reading for me) and Jonathan Coe's tricksy and entrancing The House of Sleep.
And one day I'll get round to reading some of them.
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