The following is a copy of an e-mail I sent to the 'sainted' Norm in response to his poll to pick the greatest English-speaking novelists:
Alas, my brow is so low my knees hit it. I have an acid test for all novels which goes as follows: at around the ¼ point in the text I stop and ask myself if I give a rat’s arse for any of the people in it. The answer being almost invariably ‘no’, the book is tossed away and another oath is sworn never to waste money again. This hardly qualifies me as a voter, so I will understand if you refuse to accept my entry on the basis of my self-proclaimed ignorance. Anyway, for what it’s worth:
1: Tom Wolfe – he received the greatest compliment any author could wish for from a reader, and that was my inability to finish “A Man in Full” because I was so emotionally upset by the terrible fall of one of the characters. Honestly, I couldn’t bear to read any more – what a wuss I am!
2: Thackeray – I have only read “Vanity Fair” and so enthralled was I that I tried to read it in one go, failing at around 3.00 am in the morning. (Wolfe, of course, is the Thackeray of the 20th c.)
3: Le Carre – but only for the ‘Smiley’ books and the stunning climax of “The Spy Who Came In from the Cold”
I was going to stop at this point, but I am suddenly reminded of another novelist who, years ago, gripped me through three books, so …
4: Anthony Burgess – “A Malayan Trilogy”, not least for the character of the decent Political officer and his dog who only answered to the name/imperative of “ ‘k off”!
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