I still have my reservations.
Confessions of a Bookseller is interesting and humorous, and shows that bibliophiles aren't necessarily a solitary bunch.
In Freak Like Me, Malcolm McLean recreates the 90s as I remember it, without sugar-coating the aspects that weren't so good.
Imagine how much I'd read if I didn't need to sleep quite so much.
In My Name Is Why, Lemn Sissay blends official documents and personal recollections and reflections to create a devastating narrative and damning indictment of the systems that failed him growing up. I found myself considering the nature of autobiography, and what makes this one particularly unusual and compelling.
The quicker I write this, the sooner I can get back to reading.
The three instalments of the Eliot Chronicles succeed in being both old-fashioned and surprisingly modern and relevant.
I will review a book series this month. I've made notes and everything.
Three Identical Strangers is shocking and heartbreaking, and put me in mind of my own research methods and findings.
Still rather slack on the review front.