I mean, if you put a gun to my head and forced me to read either this or Proust, I'd probably read this, because something new *might* come up, whereas Proust will just be Marcel eaten with ridiculous jealousy for a thousand pages, and I really can't stand that. Been there done that through all of Budding Grove and half of The Captive and no thank you very much.
But anyway, both those are on hold because the library book that came in yesterday isn't Dick Francis, it's The Library of the Dead, with twenty other people waiting to read my copy so I must get on with it. Am amused to see the cover blurb is from Incandescens. How you know that you've arrived: you're on the front cover and Ben Aaronovitch is on the back.