God the British are obsessed with lists. We’ve only just finished reading the tallies of “Books of the Year” which filled every literary supplement throughout December: Writers choose the books they wish they’d written; Publishers choose the books they wish they’d published; Critics choose the books that inspired them; and so on, ad nauseum, until your head is filled with hundreds and hundreds of unread titles, none of which you ever wanted to read, all of which are crucially important to the understanding of modern humanity, berating you for your philistinism. It’s horrendous. After a lapse of approximately ten minutes, during which time we all sighed with relief, made cups of tea, and sank into sofas to luxuriate in our ignorance, the List has come back with the vicious persistence of a garden fungus. The Times is the first culprit, with Nicholas Clee’s choice of “The Hottest Reads of 2009”. (I’m sorry, what? Are we in the O.C? Is literature hot right now? Does this book go with my shoes?) The selection ranges from John Grisham to Joan Bakewell, with a sprinkling of minor celebrities for good measure. The other newspapers are bound to follow suit. I am determined to read none of their suggestions, however deserving of attention, until the year is out. It is the only way to escape the tyranny of recommendation.