My reading list has settled down. I've just started Cormac McCarthy's No Country for Old Men, which should be subtitled No Book for the Faint-hearted. I'm pretty sure that nobody's going to be fashioning firearms from kitchen items in this one. And if they do, they'll get a face full of gunpowder and shards of casing. That's the sort of book it is.
I'm also dipping into a rather more genteel trio of anthologies—collections of the best writing from the Guardian's Country Diary and Birdwatch—as well as Gilbert White's Natural History of Selbourne. I'd like something of them to rub off on me. More than the ink, that is.
