Once upon a time, reading was a straightforward activity. Someone would give you a book - or you'd take one out of the library, or buy one - and you'd read it. If you liked it, you might go and choose another one by the same author. Or you might just let it swill around in your head until another interesting book randomly crossed your path.

Now, of course, reading is a highly stressful business. There's this month's book-club novel to be read. Then there's the heavyweight literary biographies you were given for Christmas that threaten to topple the tower you are building on your bedside table. This tower consists of books-recommended-by-friends and books- you-liked-the-look-of-on-Amazon and books-that-you-got- stuck-on-half-way-through but which you promise yourself you will finish one day (or else the time you've already spent on them will be wasted). There's also the shelf of books-you-intend-to-read-but- haven't-yet-got-round-to, and the books shoved in sideways that are of course the books-written-by-your-second-cousin's-next-door- neighbour and which give you guilt trips whenever you see them.