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Today sees the Curse Of Electric Halibut in particularly deadly form, as we learn of the death of American novelist Philip Roth. Roth was ...

The Day Of The Locust by Nathanael West. Tod Hackett is a young and talented artist. Hardest game in the world , though, the old young ...

Let's do another whisky post, wherein I bemoan the fact that I don't get to do whisky posts any more because I've got five kids ...

As promised, a follow-up on the earlier post about our week's holiday in the Lake District. Part one was mainly ticking off some low-le...

On The Beach by Nevil Shute. It's 1963. We're in Melbourne. Melbourne's nice, isn't it? The sea, the cricket, the Royal...

Pig by Andrew Cowan. Danny is in his mid-teens, probably 15 or 16, and lives with his parents and slobbish elder brother Richard in som...

We had a week's family holiday in the Lake District last week. As you can imagine if you know me at all, this will have comprised lots o...

True Grit by Charles Portis. Life isn't easy in the old West. The rule of law is a tenuous thing and often the manner of its applic...

A high culture/low culture mash-up today, you might say, if you were as snobbish and patronising as me; Chilean politician, poet and Nobel l...

Nausea by Jean-Paul Sartre. Our protagonist, Antoine Roquentin, is a writer trying to write a biography of some 18th-century French poli...

Ex-CEO of ExxonMobil and, as of his unexpected (to him at least) firing yesterday , ex-US Secretary of State Rex Tillerson, and former show...

It was my birthday at the weekend. No need for congratulation or commiseration, particularly, although if you really want to make some sort...

Historic times here at the Electric Halibrary. Let me explain: you will of course recall that at the end of the review of Heather McGowan...

Exposure by Helen Dunmore. Simon and Lily Callington have a nice enough life - a house in Muswell Hill, three children aged between five...