It may be rude, but whenever I visit someone for the first time, I look for, and then at, the bookcase. Is my host a kindred spirit? As Antonia Fraser writes in her introduction, there is a “deep division . . . between those for whom books are an obsession, and those who are prepared, good-humorously enough, to tolerate their existence.” In this book, we get the chance to peek at the books Tom Stoppard, John Fowles, and others couldn’t imagine being without.
The project began as a way for the ubiquitous British bookseller W. H. Smith to celebrate its bicentenary in 1992. A quarter century later, it reappeared, with a share of the profits earmarked for the British charity Give a Book.
The book collects essays by 43 authors (five added for the second edition). The entries are arranged chronologically, starting with Stephen Spender (b. 1909) and ending with Tom Wells (b. 1985). That’s a span of three-quarters of a century, so the surprise lay more in the books mentioned throughout this collection than in the sudden appearance in the last essay of Harry Potter.
The authors were asked to describe their early reading and identify what did (or did not) influence them. They were also to say what they now enjoy reading and were asked to list ten favorite books.
Many favorites were named by nearly all. While some (Alice, Treasure Island, Jane Austen) were mentioned invariably favorably, I was heartened that other celebrated books were praised by some and panned by others (not even Winnie the Pooh escapes). I guess I need to be reassured that having your own likes and dislikes is okay.
The Brontë sisters pose a special case. Listed by many as favorites, they nonetheless seem to have a lot to answer for. More than one female writer cited an adolescent fascination with Rochester and Heathcliff as the starting point of a series of relationships with Mr. Wrong.
Since the book was sponsored by a British bookseller, it would be carping to complain about how “British” the result is. Lewis Carroll and Robert Louis Stevenson I knew, but Enid Blyton and Richmal Crompton don’t seem to have made it to my neighborhood growing up. And there were several essays by authors whose early reading took place in Nigeria, Syria, the Indian subcontinent, and other locations. These were among the most interesting.
It’s inevitable in such an extensive collection that the entries were uneven. I wasn’t surprised how good the essays by such as Margaret Atwood and Jeannette Winterson were but also became curious about writers I’ve never heard of such as Jane Gardam and Rory Stewart. On the basis of their essays, I’m curious to check out their books. Some of the others previously unknown to me can remain that way if their contribution here is a fair sample of their writing. Nevertheless, if I’m wrong about Paul Sayer, for instance, whose writing struck me as stiff and pretentious, I hope someone will enlighten me.
Most authors identify themselves as having been avid, even addicted readers in childhood. While I’m sure obsession can accomplish a great deal, I began to grow suspicious of those who claimed that at age 12, after having absorbed Jane Austen, they soon conquered the complete Dickens. At times I suspected that memory may have augmented the achievement. Then there were those who boasted of their non-book childhood homes and their late start at reading. I believed some of them but also wondered whether some others were posers.
All in all, the book delivers what its title promises: the pleasure of reading. It’s the kind of book you can enjoy while commuting. After reading what these writers write about reading, it struck me that perhaps these two activities can no more be separated than can inhaling and exhaling. ( )

I enjoyed finding out what pleasure this collection of authors got out of reading, why they read, what their first books were and what they recomended. Excellent. ( )