I just started two books – one fiction (The Patron Saint Of Liars by Ann Patchett), one non-fiction (Stalin: The Court Of The Red Tsar by Simon Sebag Montefiore).

I tend to have a fiction book by my bed and a non-fiction onedownstairs, which is a sensible separation because nothing about Stalin makes it easy to fall asleep.

I don’t read thrillers, for fear that I will accidentally steal another author’s style or plot twists. And it’s a delight to read Patchett’s beautiful and clear writing.

The Lord Of The Rings trilogy, which I last read as a teenager and tried to do so slowly then, to make it last longer. I’d have the time on the island. (And if the trilogy breaks the rules, I’d take The Hobbit and just take my time until rescued.)

The first book I read was the 1964 children’s book, Fortunately, by Remy Charlip.

It hooked me on reading and introduced me to the idea that life has its ups and downs, which has been more useful than I could have predicted, unfortunately.

The first ‘grown-up’ book I remember was one I read when I was about ten or 11 – Francis Marion: The Swamp Fox Of The American Revolution.

It is the story, with apologies to my British friends, of a South Carolina military commander who fought for American independence in the deep swamps of the south-eastern US.

I was reading it in New York at the same time my future wife was reading it in Iowa, something I would learn decades later. An early sign we were destined to be together, I suppose.

I read War And Peace a few years ago because one of my kids was reading it.

Tolstoy wrote some beautiful sentences (at least as translated to English) but it took conscious effort not to skim like mad.

And when I finished, my child confessed to skimming much of it. Argh.