On the bedside table

The pile that’s living beside the bed this week, consisting of two excellent non-fiction book (on how our brains interpret music, which is complicated, and how our brains work while reading, which is utterly fascinating); one trashy fantasy which I’ve stopped reading (Red Gloves, the name of the main character and a clue as to why I’ve stopped reading – I hate fantasy novels in which characters are named by physical characteristics. It’s very hard to pull off convincingly); one 50s novel and a Nick Hornby, neither of which I’ve started. I was feeling guilty that two perfectly good novels were waiting for me to get tired of Red Gloves striding around the landscape and being told she’s the Chosen one. (Yes. Chosen. With a capital C.)

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