When he was a young man, James Wood stumbled across the book that would change his life. It was, he wrote:
not a novel or a book of poems; was not the Bible or Shakespeare's Collected Works, or The Hobbit or Dune, or any of the high or low stories that are canonically invoked when readers and writers look back in fondness. It was a book called Novels and Novelists: A Guide to the World of Fiction, edited by the brilliantly wayward poet and man of letters Martin Seymour-Smith. I found it in 1981, when I was fifteen, at Waterloo Station, on table piled with discounted books.
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