Arthur C Clarke: The Fountains of Paradise

All Arthur C Clarke's books have the same underlying theme (though in some books it is underlying more deeply than others). The theme is 'Science, not religion, is the true locus for transcendence and wonder'. This theme is explicit in The Fountains of Paradise when a great mechanical elevator to the stars supplants an ancient religious stronghold and one chapter ends with this memorable summary of the religious point of view: 'the billions of words of pious gibberish with which apparently intelligent men had addled their minds for centuries.'

I think this is Clarke's most personal book. Set in the fictional land of Taprabone, which is about 90% Sri Lanka according to the author, it's rich and vivid with detail about the land that he adopted as his home. It also comes as near as Clarke ever came to describing his personal life, the transcendent joy he felt while diving, weightless, adrift from all his worries; the being carried around the house by his personal staff. (Clarke suffered from polio and was wheelchair-bound for many years.)

Clarke is not at is best when describing politics and world affairs in his envisioned 22nd century. He is at his brilliant best when he is describing people in their battles with the laws of physics, and with envisioning alien life. This book starts in his weaker area but ends in his strongest. I think Rendezvous with Rama was better; but this is one of his best, and certainly his most revealing.

Vanity Fair: William Makepeace Thackeray

I enjoyed this book through one long summer and courtesy of Librivox and my Ipod.
I suppose Victorian novels were what Victorians did instead of soap operas, so maybe listening to its quarter of a million words read out is appropriate. I loved the relentless satirizing of everything, even love itself. I loved the warmth. I loved the way he kept the central love story of the plot right to the last page. I think Becky Sharp would have wrapped me round her little finger. Worse, I would have enjoyed it.
There are one of two sticky spots when it appears even Thackeray didn't read over his own work, perhaps he was in a hurry, but like all great books, I want to go back and do it all again.

Barchester Towers: Anthony Trollope

It's the wit that makes this book so wonderful: the waspish insights into character, the leisurely collisions of people and plot, and Trollope sitting in the corner of the book somewhere letting off one fizzing firework after another. I was completely hooked by Trollope's world of desperate power struggles over minor spoils, of unholy thoughts circling beneath posed Victorian religious exteriors like tiger sharks in a village pond. I'm glad he wrote so many books. You wouldn't want to run out of them.

War and Peace: Leo Tolstoy

You have to clear your schedule for a couple of months in the evenings, and you have to pace yourself and think of it as a series of about six novels. I read it when I was banned from going out or working for three months after nearly dropping dead. Almost worth getting a moderately serious illness so that you can read it while you recover.