Last night, I finished Vilhelm's Room by Tove Ditlevsen (trans Sophia Hersi Smith & Jennifer Russell) and its violent, defiant sadness is still lingering around this morning. There are moments of great beauty in the despair, and also humour, but still it feels like the aftermath of a slap.

Tony Harrison's death robs us of one of the most important voices of recent years. His poetry spoke to me like very few others. Rest in V signs, TH.

It's an interesting Booker List, with a couple of curveballs in there (surprised not to see Universality make the cut, for example). I've read 4, and am looking forward to the Kieran Desai, but for me my big hope is that the wildly divisive Audition by Katie Kitamura wins.

This is the greatest author picture of all time. A great writer too.

This is the greatest author picture of all time. A great writer too.

Absolutely devastated to hear about the death of Jonathan Main, one of the most exceptional, joyful, knowledgeable and funny people in the literary world. He was the bookseller's bookseller, a friend to authors and books, and a passionate advocate for great writing. He will be missed beyond words.

This pair have brightened a darkening year. Meet Nico and Komi.

I took this photograph and now want to write a novel that can use it on the cover.

This is so exciting - can't wait to explore these.

This was a nice thing to see this morning.

I find the week before going on holiday a productive time to read as I can't justify taking a half read book on holiday with me. Now cramming in as much time with Flashlight by Susan Choi as possible. Helps that it's largely wonderful.

Goodbye to this queen. Survived 13 months longer than prognosis and was fucking mint throughout all of them. Je t'aime, Margot. RIP

I recently discovered that a film was made of Mrs Palfrey at the Claremont in 2005. Last night I sat down to watch it. Oh my. If there is one way (and in this film they find multiple) to piss heartily on the sublime magic of Elizabeth Taylor, it's to set the film in the present day.

I'm off to Trieste in a couple of weeks. Any recommendations?

It's been a while since I've read a Delillo and there's always a little worry that the paranoid chill won't work on me any more. And yet, it always feels like a reset. A hymn to the power of American English sentences. The glorious sheen of his prose.

After spending most of my running time listening to late 19th and early 20th Century European novels, I've now gone over the pond and am listening Delillo's The Names, which is one of his I've never read. It is a tonic. A strange tonic, mind you.

There are moments of sublime writing in Susan Choi's FLASHLIGHT; moments too of exquisite understanding, of surprising insight. It's been a while since I've read a longish book that has hooked me so quickly.

Reading glasses

Had an intense evening in with The Mobius Book last night. Catherine Lacey is one of the most interesting, arresting writers, and I can feel it leaving little legacies for a long time to come.

So, finished The Good Soldier last night. Loved it when I read it 30 years ago, but now it feels both slighter, and more interestingly written, than I remembered. The cyclical feeding of information remains utterly sublime though.

Was going to take Margot to be put down this morning. She's had underlying health issues and massively deteriorated over the last 48 hrs. This morning she got up and started chasing flies, eating Dreamies and sauntering around like the queen she is. This is the most cat behaviour ever.

Saw Percival Everett deliver an intriguing lecture on authenticity last night. It's set me thinking about how we judge authenticity, and whether it's a judgement that needs to be weighed when considering fiction.

Saw Tim MInchin last night; off to see Stereophonic tonight. I am a cultural machine.

So sad to hear of the death of Edmund White. The Farewell Symphony was such an important book to me.

I think there's two kinds of writer. Those who approach their keyboard saying "We shall see what we shall see" like Richard Pryor in Superman III, and every writer in the world who isn't me.

I'm about to start reading The Good Soldier for the first time in 30 years. I wonder what I will make of it now (I was obsessed first time around).

I am coming up to the first third of A Man Without Qualities. It feels immediate, of our times and of all times. Which means it is exceptional.

The new Eimear McBride is just a total gut punch of brilliance. What she does with time - and generations - is sublime.

We lost my cousin Martin to suicide in 2021. I'm running the Hackney Half Marathon in his memory and in support of CALM, a suicide charity. If you'd donate, I'd be hugely grateful. www.justgiving.com/page/stuart-...

And so it has happened. I have finished The Magic Mountain. And I am truly bereft.

Tonight, I'm fulfilling a dream I had when I was about 13 of seeing Emo Phillips live. His bits were always the best on Adrian Juste's Radio 1 Show.

Heart-broken that my beloved Georges has died. The finest panther a writer ever had, and gone way too soon.

By page 600 of The Magic Mountain, Mann is just fucking with you. Ha! You remember those giddy days of love and that mardi gras party? Well that's your lot, sunshine. You can have endless theological squabbles and pages of description of snow instead. Think you'll finish it now, do you? Hmmm?

I've been thinking about my books of the year, and I realise it's been probably one of the best in recent memory. One thing I do know, is my discovery of 2024 has been Lynne Tillman. Sharp, funny, deliriously intelligent, inherently odd, her books absolutely shine. Favourite so far: Motion Sickness.

Having a wonderful time sparring with The Magic Mountain. Each section I start I have no idea if I'll be challenged, engaged, infuriated, amused or bored. It's an Opera cake of a novel and after 500 pages, I'm still not sure where it's going. Or if it is going anywhere. Either way, it's amazing.

If I lived here, I'd have the Beatles in my head every hour of every day.

One of the great joys or writing in bars is that something can happen that triggers a thought process and suddenly you're on a different road than you thought. A character I'd not thought was needed before has just come fully formed. And she's funny as all hell.

My new favourite bar in Vienna has been playing decent music, but is now playing Just Can't Get Enough by Depeche Mode and I couldn't be happier

On the top deck of a double decker train, Danube behind me. Research,it seems, can be fun.

In my favourite Vienna bar. Vinyl only music and good drinks. And this written on the door. Of which I approve.

@phi11y.bsky.social Hi Philippa! Didn't realise you'd set up your own agency. Many congratulations x

Just conducted a conversation in a Vienna bookshop regarding old maps entirely in German, and understood the booksellers answers. Am beside myself. Likely to be a fluent German speaker by Saturday tea time.

This is a sign in my place. Every time I see it, I think Molleram, Figeram, Molleram and someone having their heart ripped out.

Ran 10k along the Danube this morning while listening to The Magic Mountain. Feel ultra Mittel European

First night writing in Vienna. Went to a pub called Heaven on Smoker Street (raucherstrasse). Scat Man playing on the stereo. Nothing divine about that I can tell you.

I'm off a writing trip to Vienna tomorrow. Any tips for good bars/exhibitions?

Martin Amis must be gutted he is both dead, and unable to make use of this name.

I've been mostly writing this year, but I did read some excellent books (re)published in 2023. Here there are for your browsing glory My Favourite Books of 2023 (bookshop.org)

Moody outside pub shot. #liverpool

Overton (through the) Window