Vibrant, brilliant - but it's no Anna.

(I'm sorry. I know it's a clichéd criticism, but it's how I feel.)

I am looking forward to reading lots of Flaubert in the future, though. I aime him very much.

Once again I find the bookswellread cataloguing system lacking: I could not finish this book. There should be an option for that.

Admittedly my expectations were high, so there was a large chance of disappointment. Having attended a Tracy Chevalier talk about this book, found her to be gracious and genuine, AND nursed a frantic passion for William Blake for quite some time ... I think the only thing that could have lifted them yet further would have been if I'd read Girl With A Pearl Earring and found it to meet its hype.

I feel I should make it clear here that I didn't hate this book; I just found it unbearably pedestrian. I could have continued reading it, but the thought of all the fantastic books I have not yet read that I could be reading instead of this was more than I could bear. What carried me through the first two hundred and fifty pages was curiosity: I wanted to see Blake through the eyes of those who were there; I wanted to find out more about him. I found nothing of value; Chevalier's characterisation of the man made him little more than a stereotypical Disney benevolent father-figure. I really resent that. I'm sure those who lived alongside Blake probably did connect intensely and wonderfully with him, but Chevalier's representation of this lacked subtlety, and any portrayal of anyone's encounter with Blake was overblown, worthless, far too frequent to be at all precious; above all, mawkish. The whole 'Come here, my children, and read my songs with me' thing just came across like a stumbling realisation of a naive, emotionally-stunted sprog's deepest intellectually-correct desires. Said sprog could be anything up to thirteen; I do not expect such immaturity from serious artists.

And on top of that, there was absolutely nothing in the story to save it. The characters surrounding Blake did not develop beyond Everymen, so I couldn't care about them, and there was nothing much resembling a plotline. The constant knowing references to Piddle in particular ground against me - yes, Tracy, I know it's quaint: I have lived in Britain my entire life. And I think that's what it comes down to: this book suffers irredeemably for its author's Overenthusiastic American Syndrome. I wouldn't have thought this at all of Chevalier having met her, knowing she has lived here for twenty-two years ... but there we are. The premise of the book remains one of interest; it's unfortunate that it was executed so crudely. I intend to explore the books listed in the bibliography, but I expect that is where the good that I will take from this book will be exhausted.

OH. Let me collect my thoughts.

This book had a lot going from it from the very beginning: it smells perfect, exactly like an old book should; its cover is beautiful; it treads exquisitely the line between being floppy and being firm: it is a pleasure to hold.

Then I opened it, and it made my heart dance.

I'm not sure how far Nietzsche intended people to take Zarathustra as a self-help figure, or indeed how far it is wise to do so; I am sure that this book was precisely what I needed at this stage in my life. It guided me not into following Zarathustra but into believing I could climb my own path up my own mountain - and it told me so so beautifully. I mean, of course Zarathustra become insuffrable at times, but every time I disagreed with him my thoughts took me to amazing places.

When I asked my old philosophy teacher why Nietzsche was his favourite philosopher, he said it was precisely because he did not agree with him, and because his ideas took him to interesting places. I concur. I think it's a fool who follows him blindly (and didn't Zarathustra say not to find him, but to find yourself?). I think you're missing out if you don't allow Nietzsche to supplement your own intellectual journeys - not least because it's so rare to find a writer who is so unafraid to be openly passionate. I love that. I want to read everything he's written. Amazon, here I come.

After seeing the du Maurier drama last week it was all too apparent that my ignorance of her works was preposterous and had to end. Thus Rebecca. It was another of those books that rendered me incapable of dealing with anything outside of it for several minutes after each session, made me wander as though in a dream, back to my desk, unable to focus, wholly confused as to why this world I live in exists. It was extremely powerful, and I look forward to reading it again at some point. And I fucking adore Daphne. I would love to meet her.

Again, this site should rate out of ten, because Great Expectations would get seven. I found it cute, which, while fun and a delight, is not what I read books for. The points at which I was truly engaged were too distant from each other to save this book for me. I don't mean to say that I think it a failure - I don't at all; it just didn't transport me into that stream of terrible beauty that the books I find truly satisfying wrench me into.

I really enjoyed this. I was concerned that it would suffer some awful, irreconcilable flaw that would entirely negate the delight I felt at its subject matter - but that wasn't the case (despite the worryingly A-level first line of the blurb - apparently there are lots of similarities between Blake and Nietzsche, AND lots of differences too! But I digress). This was extremely interesting, and worthwhile. I confess some parts of it went over my head, but I am more than happy to read it again and again until it all makes sense to me. This is fabulous.

Typically, I get half way through this, abandon it for months, perpetuate my inertia by assuming it'll take too much of me to get back into it, then spontaneously remove it from my shelf one morning and whack out the remaining half in less than a day. Of course it was amazing; I shouldn't need to even allude to that. I was left somewhat distraught, though: Milton's writing is so alive, so fiery, when it is about Satan, and Adam and Eve's pain, and the terror of their love and, thieving my opinion from Blake, the discrepancy between that magnificence and the flatness, the falsity, of the sections concerning heavenly beings left me feeling as though I'd been denied something yet more fantastic. I feel peevish attacking Milton for not being consistently breathtaking - it should be enough just to have written the chapters of disarming amazingness that he has done - but still, I feel the God bits were written out of obligation, and as such are unspeakably crude. They disappoint and frustrate me; they turn even beautiful language into a grey mass of ... nothing, really. It sounds a false dichotomy even to read it back to myself, even hours after feeling that disappointment, but it's true, I know it. Anyway, that's why this gets a four: for being superb only inconsistently; for causing me pain that I abhorred as well as pain that I welcomed. I will read it to my children, but not in its entirety.

I was in love with Emile Zola after about two sentences of preface. The story itself was not without its flaws: for one thing, it climaxed far too soon. But! It was gripping; it made me writhe; it made me giggle blackly; it still makes me worry about my neck. In short, delightful.

Overwhelmingly masculine. Regretably, the intensity stopped being one I could fully tap into after the murder. That doesn't stop this being impressive; it just meant I was washed out for much of it. I ... hmm. I kind of feel I'm not doing this justice: I did enjoy it. And Lizaveta broke my heart - the way she held her hands out made me want to implode. It was good, I promise, I promise.

Lolita is an assault. I read it over two days in breaks at work and, emerging from the 'quiet area' in the corner at the end of each one (reading at desks being forbidden, of course - unless it's the Financial Times), I was entirely unable to readjust to the world. I can't actually remember anything that happened on those days: it's like trying to remember a dream you can just about grasp the overall atmosphere of, but that is all, no details. I know everyone says this, but it is so dizzying, so overwhelming, so disturbing; in a word, amazing. I think Martin Amis sums it up best when he says: 'you read Lolita sprawling limply in your chair, ravished, overcome, nodding scandalised assent'. It *was* ravishing, and you feel abused, and you can't shake the concern that a substantial part of you absolutely fucking loved it.

I for one am quite happy leaving the book with these concerns, though: far better to be questioning of it all than for Nabokov to have taken the easy route and plastered insurmountable moralism over the whole thing. It probably sounds obvious but the books I value the most are those that leave me wondering, whose themes force me to reconsider my views, that wrench my mind wider open than I ever wanted it to be and mockingly inform me I can go back if I wish, knowing full well I do not wish to; those that make me uncomfortable - and this was anything but comfortable. Empathising with a paedophile is not something I ever really thought I would or could do, but here I am, with a list of reasons as long as my arm to find Humbert Humbert contemptible, knowing full well I can say what I want but, still, I'm persuaded: we're both achingly human and alone and failures (albeit not in the same way). And his snide comments completely won me over, despite the towering ugliness I knew he embodied. I know I'm not expressing this very well; I feel nervous about publishing this, to be honest. But I want to get my point across: that the extreme conflict caused by this book is proof of its necessity, its importance, its power.

It's predictable but I can't finish this entry without praising Nabokov's hold of the English language. I don't really think I can say anything about this that somebody else hasn't said more eloquently (and famously). Still. That was the most ravishing aspect for me. Hats off, Vladimir.