My life in books: ‘An iced latte and a good read make for an unbeatable combo’
Juliano Zaffino: 'I think the only book I’ve ever not finished is Jane Austen’s 'Pride and Prejudice'. Sorry, Austen (and my many Austen-loving friends), but in my defence, I was only 13.' Picture: Antony Zacharias
Juliano Zaffino is a writer, researcher, and editor based near London.
I’m researching war photographers at the moment, so currently a tome of Marie Colvin’s collected journalism, , and a couple of biographies about her.
Hera Lindsay Bird’s self-titled poetry collection is one I often return to for comfort.
As someone who feels too much, its hilarious embrace of too-much-ness makes it such an antidote.
I think the only book I’ve ever not finished is Jane Austen’s . Sorry, Austen (and my many Austen-loving friends), but in my defence, I was only 13.
Mary Pope Osborne’s series of children’s books, .
These books converted four-year-old me from “reading is boring” to “reading is everything and also how cool is it that you can just invent your own world in words?”.
Most recently, Isabel Waidner’s . It’s an inventive and sometimes silly tale of the prince-and-pauper variety that takes so many wild turns, and is brimming with funny characters and such clever attention to language.
It’s so existential but I had so much fun reading it.
Joan Didion’s , a memoir and sort-of sequel to her better known (and equally devastating) .
It’s an exploration of long grief from the perspective of a woman left to face her last years alone, and it left me openly weeping in a café.
Redeeming myself for earlier: Jane Austen’s . What a sharp, funny, lovely book about a slightly bratty but still so loveable young woman whose well-meaning matchmaking efforts wreak havoc on the lives of those around her, all while she is blind to the truth of her own love life.
Amy Key’s is so instructive on how to live a life without romantic love at its centre.
It found me at a time when I really needed it, and I’ve returned to its lessons many times in the years since.
If I knew this, I’d be writing it!
Lauren Groff’s . A well-written and endlessly surprising study in the unknowability of the ones we love, what drives us to create, and whose stories matter.
I really love Shakespeare’s , so this is a no-brainer: (1994).
I love a good, physical bookshop. Hard to pick a favourite amongst all the wonderful indie bookshops, but the London Review Bookshop just about takes the top spot for me.
There’s a system, but not the most rational one — writers with lots of books get their own shelves, certain publishers get their own shelves, certain genres get their own sections (poetry, graphic novels, music writing) — let’s just call it organised chaos.
At the risk of being a stereotype of my generation: an iced latte and a good read make for an unbeatable combo.
Rebecca Perry put out a novel earlier this year, , at the centre of which is this elusive, enigmatic king who really doesn’t want to be king. He’s sad and philosophical and lonely, and he’s very much set up shop in my head.
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