Robert Johnstone: James

Of course any publisher that decides to call itself 'Banner of Truth' asks for a custard pie to be applied somewhere. I do not think Christian-based groups are at their strongest when making the grand claims.

However, if I stop making reverse-sanctimonious comments on the publisher's name, I have to admit that the BoT supplied me with free books when I was much younger, and those, among others of their titles, have nourished my soul.

This is a lovely book. All it does is unbolt the Epistle of James, lay it all out on the garage floor, and then pick up each piece and tell you what it does. The author preached these sermons long before he became a university professor, when he was based at the little fishing port of Abroath, nearly 150 years ago.

John Polkinghorne: Belief in God in an Age of Science

No doubt the most illuminating book I have ever read on the subject, John Polkinghorne steers a reasonable and rational course between the extremists (Dawkins and the creationists) whose noise usually drowns out all else. He is a physicist and a theologian, and a winner I think of the Templeton Prize for progress in religion, the Nobel Prize in God.

Olaf Stapledon: The Star Maker

Philosophy is supposed to be a series of footnotes to Plato. In the same way, the science fiction I have read might be said to be footnotes to Stapledon.

This is one of the most remarkable books I have ever read. Arthur C Clarke called it 'the most powerful work of imagination ever written.' Doris Lessing, nobel laureate, and Virginia Woolf heaped praise on it.

It isn't really a novel. It's essentially an overview of a person's experience becoming more and more aware of all the life in the universe, and of the Star Maker himself. As such, it works like Russian dolls in reverse: each succeeding vision is larger than the rest. You wonder where the inventiveness comes from. You wonder if he's ever going to stop. You wonder what he was on when he wrote this.

Finally there is an encounter with the Star Maker himself, which, amazingly, doesn't disappoint.
Truly a classic.

Persepolis: Marjane Satrapi

What a gem of a book.

'Guns and knives may break our calves, but we won't wear your silly scarves!'

Marjane Satrapi's Persepolis is a insider story of:

• the Iranian revolution,
• the Gulf (Iran-Iraq) War (about which we in the West were so cruelly complacent),
• how fugitives to the West are mostly welcomed by the alternative cultures, not the mainstream ones
• Teenagerhood
• Freedom and its contradictions
  

and with a walk on part by

• God.

It's all told in cartoon form. It's the best thing I've ever read on Iran and one of the best books I've read about living under an Islamist regime.

I found it the sort of book you have to put down while you walk around and try to think about it. Things like:

• Why don't we understand Iranians as victims of totalitarianism, quite as much as people in Mao's China or Stalin's Russia? Surely they are.
• How much teenagers need surrogate parents and grandparents;
• How people can end up on the streets; and get off them again.

>

Neal Stephenson's baroque 'trilogy'

The mix of science, history, speculation and story-telling makes the 2000 plus pages of these four books as entertaining as the best things I have ever read. Cryptonomicon was the first, set in the Second World War and the 1990s; the three others followed afterwards, set in the Scientific Revolution. Hugely, utterly satisfying. I cannot remember enjoying a book more. My only real disappointment with these books was that they came to an end.

Scoop: Evelyn Waugh

My ideal of the comic novel. Funny, but not crude or malicious. Improbable but just probable enough to keep your disbelief suspended. Gentle but not soggy or woolly. Satirical but not bitter. Every character is funny, but each in a different way. None is irritating. A pert prose style devoid of any self-indulgence. Endlessly quotable, like a Monty Python sketch. Long may the questing vole, feather footed, pass through the plashy fen.

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.