The English Patient by Michael Ondaatje, who write’s the most romantic moments of necrophilia.
A Writer’s Diary by Virginia Woolf, who is every bit as insecure about her writing on bad days as is this writer.
Song of Myself by Walt Whitman, who is hugely patronising about everyone who is not him which is also everyone he claims he is.
A Vietnam War Reader by Michael H. Hunt, who is actually genuinely named Mike Hunt.
Static Exile by George Ttoouli, whose book can and should be bought here. I do know the author, and may therefore lack integrity.
Ooga-Booga by Frederick Seidel, who rhymes too much.
Notre-Dame de Paris by Victor Hugo, who somehow got his great work on sexual obsession turned into a children’s movie.
Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas by Hunter S. Thompson, who is just great.
The Merry Wives of Windsor by William Shakespeare, who is probably funnier on the stage than on the page.
The Reluctant Fundamentalist by Mohsin Hamid, who writes a narrator who is both super-compelling and super-annoying.
The Man With the Golden Gun by Ian Fleming, who is always a fascinating source of trivia.