"'And Mr Jellyby, sir?' suggested Richard.
'Ah! Mr Jellyby,' said Mr Kenge, 'is - a - I don't know that I can describe him to you better than by saying that he is the husband of Mrs Jellyby.'
'A nonentity, sir?' said Richard with a droll look.
'I don't say that,' returned Mr Kenge, gravely. 'I can't say that, indeed, for I know nothing whatever of Mr Jellyby. I never, to my knowledge, had the pleasure of seeing Mr Jellyby. He may be a very superior man; but he is, so to speak, merged - Merged - in the more shining qualities of his wife.'"

From Bleak House.

Be still my beating heart: the film of the unfilmable book is showing as part of the London Film Festival. Fans of Tristram Shandy can book online - there's only two showings, and I don't know whether the plan is to distribute it more widely.

Lots of bits and pieces on the value of book prizes in the papers this weekend. Most of it sour grapes. But I think this piece raises an interesting question: what makes one genre of novel completely out of the running? In this case, PD James asks the question of crime novels. To quote both the article and Ian Rankin, a fellow crime-writer:

Why is crime writing, with its "very conscious structure" and ability to raise "big moral issues" outside the box of introversion, such a poor relation of "literary fiction", asked Rankin?

So, what makes a Booker winner, and what doesn't? Is "literary fiction" true "art" - as per John Sutherland's comment on John Banville's novel?

I like both Rankin & James but can honestly say I'd never have considered them to be serious contenders for the big literary prizes. And I'm now undecided as to whether I could justify that position. This raises a big question, for me at least, as to the value of these prizes for the reading public. Is it possible to justify something so exclusive? On what grounds? If the purpose of these prizes are to encourage the populace to read, are they any different to Richard & Judy's Bookclub? Does that matter? I guess it may do to those authors that are excluded.