Seldom have I had a novel so closely echo feelings I've had.
Much as I loved
docbrite's new novel Liquor, the winner for novel I've been most affected by this year is decidedly Hollinghurst's The Line of Beauty- which is not surprising: the thing won the damn Booker prize, which seems to invariably go to Saddest British Novel of the Year, though I believe the intention is more Best British Novel of the Year. And thank god I was as young in the 80s as I was- every report says it was a fucking bleak time to be the sort of grownup that I've become since then.
