Sleeping in Flame, by Jonathan Carroll

I've been a big fan of Carroll's since I read Bones of the Moon at school. His is a distinctive voice: romantic, philosophical, often sinister and sometimes chilling. Set in Carroll's beloved Vienna, Sleeping in Flame is a beautifully told love story, a compelling mystery and a dark fantasy. In it, Walker Easterling (most of Carroll's characters have rather exotic, cool-sounding names) meets and falls in love with Maris York (see?), one of those characters one finds oneself falling in love with too, as the book progresses.

But as well as Maris, Walker discovers a gravestone that, like many in Austria, shows a photograph of the man it commemorates. And the man is the spitting image of Walker. Investigating this unsettling coincidence, Walker gradually discovers (as you can imagine) that it's no coincidence at all. His past goes back more deeply into history than his own life can account for. And his previous lives reveal more about him that he'd really like to know.

Discovering the truth of one's own character is a recurrent theme in Carroll's books, and that truth is often less than entirely positive. But for all the darkness, his books are just as often a celebration of life, and of love. I admit to being been less than convinced by a couple of his more recent books, but I still snap up a new Carroll with excited anticipation. (I just had the latest, Glass Soup, delivered. Unfortunately it hit the doormat while I was on holiday, and the dog ate quite a lot of it. Now it looks like the one I've had the longest.)

If you read one author in your life, make it Wodehouse

Is that a daft thing to say, in the face of Shakespeare, Milton, Hemingway, et al? Perhaps it is daft, but perhaps that's the point. If I had to read one author for ever more, I think I'd rather have Wodehouse's sublime form of daftness at my bedside than anything else. Wodehouse isn't just a writer. He's a friend for life, restoring the warm glow in gloomy times.

He's also, without doubt, one of the truly great artists of English. What appears to be the lightest and frothiest of confections is achieved only through meticulous construction and painstaking effort over detail.

I've picked Leave it the Psmith to stand for the whole Wodehouse oeuvre, because otherwise this section would be absurdly long. This was the first of his books I ever read (a beautiful Folio Society edition illustrated by Paul Cox, who was born to draw Wodehouse). It's actually the last of the four Psmith books (the P is silent, in case you didn't know), and the best of an excellent bunch. One of its special pleasures is that this book weaves Psmith's story into the life of Blandings Castle, one of Wodehouse's other great sagas.

Psmith himself - a garrulous gadabout with a heart of gold - is an immortal character. His dialogue (or, more frequently, monologue) is up there with the best of Wodehouse. Tempted as I am to quote him, Wodehouse's writing is so tightly (albeit almost invisibly) constructed, quoting anything out of context always leaves one feeling that the joke hasn't fully come across. A bit like showing someone a few squares of coloured glass and saying, 'Look how beautiful this rose window is.'

So all I will say is that Christmas is approaching, and few presents will bring greater pleasure than the Psmith books - or just about anything else this wondrous writer ever writ.

One of the most beautiful books ever?

It's quite a grand claim for any book, but Jean-Dominique Bauby's account of life with "Locked-in Syndrome" is surely worthy. Bauby, once Editor in Chief of French Elle, suffered a massive stroke - something which, until recently, was unequivocably fatal. But, as Bauby puts it, "improved resusitation techniques have now prolonged and refined the agony". It's one of the few bitter moments of this staggering book.

Staggering first for the method of its writing: almost entirely paralysed, Bauby dictated the book with his one mobile muscle: his left eyelid. All day he would compose, edit and memorise the chapters in his head. Then, when his "publisher's emissary" turned up, he or she would point to letters of the alphabet. Bauby would wink at the right letter, building words character by character; sentences word by word; paragraphs sentence by sentence.

Perhaps even more staggering is what Bauby chose to talk about from within the immobile "diving bell" of his body. For although he doesn't shy from expressing his frustration, the still free "butterfly" of his mind takes us to many more positive places than we have any right to expect.

And throughout, you can't help but be conscious of the effort - of memory, patience and sheer will - behind every word. The book opens with this sentence:

"Through the frayed curtain at my window a wan glow announces the break of day."

Reading it, you know how important it must have been that we know the curtain was frayed. These are the details he wants in his picture: wants enough to blink his way through them, when "the curtain" would, for many, have done just as well.

There must be a million books out there claiming themselves, glibly, as 'testament to the power of the human spirit' or some such. Here is one that genuinely deserves that sort of accolade. If you'd like to read it, click the cover and go straight to the relevant page on Amazon.co.uk

The Course of the Heart, by M. John Harrison

I've just finished this extraordinary, and extraordinarily strange, book. And it leaves its mark. The story is sparked by a mysterious ritual, never fully described, enacted by four university friends. In later life, the results of this invocation haunt them all - except, it seems, for the narrator, who spends a lot of his time trying to help the others, or at least to comfort them.

If you don't know much about Gnostic religion and the 'Pleroma' (I didn't), it's worth having a dictionary handy. But don't let me put you off: if you invest a little time in this book, it repays your trouble many times over. Even if you simply let it wash over you, Harrison's vision is remarkable and genuinely unique. The writing is pin-sharp and often astonishingly beautiful. I can safely say you won't have read a book quite like it. (Except perhaps for another Harrison: check out short stories of a similar ilk in The Ice Monkey.)

Click the cover to buy The Course of the Heart from Amazon.co.uk