When I go on my hols this summer, I will, as ever, be taking a couple of novels with me. My golden rule for any break is only to take the kind of books that I’m actually likely to read, which not only rules out most of what I write and research, in the form of biographical and historical non-fiction, but also anything that’s going to sit in my suitcase reproachfully unopened, taking up space and leaving me feeling like an intellectual pygmy.

Burying oneself in books should be an enjoyable rather than excruciating experience

Burying oneself in books should be an enjoyable rather than excruciating experience

Last summer, I raced through an Amanda Craig, several Simon Ravens and a William Boyd. This year, for consistency, I’m hoping to pack the latest Boyd. But I’m also intending to read John le Carré’s A Perfect Spy, which everyone who I respect has routinely described as his masterpiece and which, I hope, will finally make me love le Carré, rather than merely admire him.

I would love to say that I’m also going to be taking The Faerie Queen, Ezra Pound’s The Cantos and some impenetrable modern novel to strain my sun-lashed brain to its limits. But I cannot lie to you, Spectator readers. The idea of doing anything that seems like hard work is so unprepossessing an idea that it makes me shiver, even during these sweaty days. While there is a part of me that........

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