Just the thing – if your thing is sensitive, middle-aged, white over-educated British guys in the media, agonizing for hundreds of pages about their marriages and affairs, but – actually, normally I’d be up for that. At least if Iris Murdoch was the one writing it.
I don’t know why Barnes gets on my tits so much, but he does – him and Amis and McEwan and all that clever-clever shower. I think perhaps because I always feel as if he needs cheering up, dragging out to get plastered and forget his troubles. I read novels to avoid that kind of connection and responsibility, thanks. Don’t I have enough to worry about?