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I made it to page 47 of Booker Prize-winner A Brief History of Seven Killings before giving up; Facebook suggests that I was not alone in finding it hard going.

Abandoning it allowed me to spend Christmas with Fates and Furies, which I devoured – it reminded me of the feeling of reading The Goldfinch over Christmas in Paris a couple of years ago. Fates and Furies has featured heavily on end-of-year lists, including Barack and Michelle Obama’s, and I’m fascinated to know what about it moved them particularly, given that at its center is marriage in which the wife’s unacknowledged support for her husband is crucial to his success. Regardless, it was just terrific. I haven’t enjoyed reading something so much for a long time.

Now I’m just into The Argonauts, a memoir with a sidebar of critical theory. I can already tell it’s going to be great, even though it’s not the type of thing I generally read:

[Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick was] fat, freckled, prone to blushing, bedecked in textiles, generous, uncannily sweet, almost sadistically intelligent, and, by the time I met her, terminally ill.