I love Nick Hornby so much I get all tongue-tied trying to explain why, and end up just enthusing in what's probably kind of an embarrassing way. This books of essays is just as smart and funny and wonderful as The Polysyllabic Spree, both of which are collections of Hornby's reviews from "The Believer" magazine. Aside from being a great read in and of themselves, the essays have also given me some amazing recommendations for further reading, including books I'd never have heard of otherwise; Julie Orringer's How To Breathe Underwater is an excellent example. Another wonderful thing about this particular book (Hornby's, not Orringer's): the amazing introductory essay, which is all about reading and pleasure. Which seems kind of obvious, because isn't that what reading is all about? Except that I tend to forget that, and sometimes try to force myself to read things that are Good For Me. Which can be a good thing, sometimes, but Nick Hornby reminded me that we should really be getting joy out of 99% of our reading material. Otherwise, what's the point?

Hornby’s column may have switched magazines since the collection published in The Polysyllabic Spree, but it retained its acid wit. This edition contains 14 monthly columns published in The Believer, chronicling the author’s book purchases and what he’s read.

Along the way I found a couple books I want to read, but mainly I just enjoyed his writing. I love the sections where he talks about wanting reading to be a joy, not a chore. He gives such a refreshingly honest look at reading. He reads what he wants. He knows he isn’t always reading the “best” books, but he’d rather read something he enjoys.

I think I tend to read books I think I “should” read, but I also balance that with books I want to read. I’ve also found that I often end up loving the “should read” books more than the others. I think the important thing is just to keep reading no matter what.

BOTTOM LINE: Start with The Polysyllabic Spree and enjoy Hornby’s snarky observations.

"If I felt that mood, morale, concentration levels, weather, or family history had affected my relationship with a book, I could and would say so."

"We often read books that we think we ought to read, or that we think we ought to have read, or that other people think we should read."

"One of the problem, it seems to me, is that we have got it into our heads that books should be hard work, and that unless they're hard work, they're not doing us any good."

"If reading books is to survive as a leisure activity - and there are statistics which show that this is by no means assured - then we have to promote the joys of reading rather than the (dubious) benefits."

To say I enjoyed this collection of essays about books by Nick Hornby would be such an understatement! I love his way of making the reader feel as if he is sitting next to you having a personal conversation about books and life in general. The only problem is that he keeps making my "to read" list even longer!

Hornby is as clever and funny as in his first collection of columns, The Polysyllabic Spree, but I liked this one better for one simple reason: I was familiar with more of the books. I need to flip back through to make sure I've picked out all the ones I want to read, and it's going to be a sizable list.

He focuses on the idea that all reading is good reading, and that all books have some merit. I'll cop to being a book snob, but I'm slowly growing out of it (in large part because I've begun reading books that I know other people would scoff at). There are few books that have no literary merit whatsoever (I am looking at you, Pony-Crazed Princess). Not every book out there is "literary", but I think most people would freely admit that some of those literary books are, you know, boring. That doesn't mean we shouldn't read them - it simply means that there's no shame in reading other kinds of books.

Personally, I think the goal should be to read a mix of books, from all kinds of genres, but I know that doesn't work for everyone. In the meantime, I'll be glad people are reading at all, and go back to mocking bad television. Who's with me?

(Oh, right: Hornby does a much better job of making that point than I do. Read the book.)

The problem with reading a book full of book reviews is that it makes one want to go out and buy more books. I suppose that is the point, really.

As much as I enjoy Hornby's particular style of writing, it got to be a bit tedious toward the end which is why it dipped to three stars from an otherwise solid four. The book is a collection of essays published in Believer magazine and not only do they start to sound the same, one realizes that Hornby actually copies opening passages from time to time, and then jokes about it. Sorry, mate, that might work once but not repeatedly.

I also realized part way through that this was neither the first nor last collection of such essays. Sadly, this collection does not make me want to rush out and buy the others, either. However, if you'd like some prompts for reading, simply skimming the titles of books purchased and books read at the opening of each essay will fuel months of reading, I'm sure.

Note on finishing: Loved it. Really am sad that he won't be doing this column for the Believer anymore, because thanks to him I've unearthed the two Marilynne Robinson novels I own and moved them to the top of the pile. (And discovered that I've purchased at least two copies of Housekeeping, though if memory serves, there's another lurking in a box somewhere with a greenish-yellow cover circa early nineties. Damn.

Also worthwhile if only to discover that Hornby, too, finds Iain Banks to be less-than compelling. He tries and fails to finish one of Banks' science fiction novels, and, having been in the same boat with Banks, it was with undisguised glee that I read this bit:

"And nothing in the twenty-odd pages I managed of Excession was in any way bad; it's just that I didn't understand a word. I didn't even understand the blurb on the back of the book: 'Two and a half millenia ago, the artifact appeared in a remote corner of space, beside a trillion-year-old dying sun from a different universe. It was a perfect black-body sphere, and it did nothing. Then it disappeared. Now it is back.' This is clearly intended to entice us into the novel—that's what blurbs do, right? But this blurb just made me scared. An artifact—that's something you normally find in a museum, isn't it? Well, what's a museum exhibit doing floating around in space? So what if it did nothing? What are museum exhibits supposed to do? And this dying sun—how come it's switched universes? Can dying suns do that?"

I laughed and hooted while reading this on the subway—tears may have even been shed, if not by me than by those around me, who did their damnedest to get as far away from me as possible.

Damn, but I'll miss this column of his.
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Bought this book pretty much on pub, read about half of it, then set it down.

And it disappeared.

Oh, but I know it's somewhere, and I'll find the damn thing, especially now that I've been reinvigorated by reading his final collection of these essays.

These are fantastic essays on books, much like this Goodreads proposition: books bought vs. books read, and off-topic wonderfulness.

I can't even begin to say how much I liked this book. Almost enough to subscribe to the Believer, at least, if only for Hornby's essays. At the risk of offending lots of critics, his essays do something that so few book reviews ever do: entertain the reader on their own merits, and and AND, so much more importantly, actually inspire you to WANT to read the books he talks about. A uniquely witty and "literary" (I mean that in the good, intelligent way) reader who actually has, like, normal interests outside of reading. I know, crazy right?

I've always said that I prefer Hornby's non-fiction to his fiction. He himself has the self-awareness, maturity and wry self-criticism that his characters always lack. Reading the collection of his essays written for the Believer Literary magazine about the books that he bought and read each month (where there was often little overlap between the books that were bought and read) gives one the distinct pleasure of inhabiting his world. His messy home with non-perfect children; his interests in everything from North Korea to the entertainment world; the gentle and humanizing mockery he uses to defuse what could be the self-importance of the task of writing book reviews for a literary magazine that, as its philosophy, refuses to print negative reviews; the genuine enjoyment he gets out of his reading life. You don't always understand and agree with this choices, nor did I always agree with his impressions, but I always enjoyed the way Hornby interacted with the books, the way what he was reading was an offshoot of his life or how when one of the books integrated itself in the choices he made. In my reviews and in other's reviews, I'm often less interested in the summary of the book itself - I can get that off the back of the book or on amazon - instead, I'm more interested in what, in me, recognized or didn't recognized something in the characters or story; in the reaction that the book created in me. Hornby seems to have the same reaction to literature. It is true that sometimes you could see his fatigue with the project and the articles were more synopsis over which he tried to put a theme. All in all, these were the literary equivalent of a warm blanket, a couch, a cup of tea (or wine or scotch) and a comforting night in.

[Reviewers Note: I am using the same review for all four books because there is nothing to distinguish the volumes other than their dates and the number of review which the editors decided to include. I will say that the first and last were my favorites if only because I found more universal truth nuggets and those copies had more underlines and he read more books that I had also read.]

A well-written, enjoyable diary of what Nick Hornby read for about 18 months, with excerpts from some of his favorite books ... and now I have three more books on my to-read list, haha. As well as his other books in this series, including "Shakespeare Wrote for Money." (Each chapter originally appeared as a column in a monthly British literary magazine.)

P.S. Not surprisingly, each of the three books Mr Hornby has inspired me to read have an (American) Civil War connection. Stay tuned ...

Funny and insightful essays about reading, one of my favorite topics. His enjoyment of certain books is so infectious that I must have had twenty more books on my to-read list by the end of reading this.

I picked this book off the "to read" pile because I thought "hey, it's a quick read - Nick Hornby and 150 pages or so." Like Nick Hornby I do have a large pile of books I want to read and I'm constantly buying them faster than I can get through them. So it was ironic that I chose this book because it's short; it's really a gateway book- book reviews of everything he's read in an 18 month period and of course I now have a long list of more books I want to buy and read! How counterproductive!
I have to say I always enjoy a book by Hornby, even though they're not all as stellar as High Fidelity. He's always a human and realistic writer, so realistic in fact that in the forward for this book he argues: "we have got it into our heads that books should be hard work, and that unless they're hard work they're not doing us any good . . . please, if you're reading a book that's killing you, put it down and read something else . . . Your failure to enjoy a highly rated novel doesn't mean you're dim." He questions what makes a book "literature" and then what can make it a classic. But most importantly, he reminds us that he, a writer, is really just a reader like us. In fact, he gives us a few short chapters and snippets from some of his favorite recent reads.
In short, reading this isn't like reading a New York Times book review (not that I tend to do that anyway); it's more like having a conversation, a really smart conversation, with a friend about what books he's been reading. And it tells another story for him, which is more the story of his own life than any of his fictional narratives. I can't wait to read Juliet, Naked!