Is there no end to these, you cry? Possibly not. I really own an awful lot of books, some of which are rather more awful than they should be, and others of which I've read an awful lot less than I should. (Pardon while I channel a drunken Bilbo Baggins for a moment). In this batch I am tossing, with profound political joy, Orson Scott Card, since the man's frothing homophobia has finally reached the point where I can't actually bring myself to read anything he's written. (The Alvin Maker series were among my Masters dissertation texts, and were presumably fun at the time, but I appear to have grown out of them on multiple levels). I actually recommend the Gail Carriger, they're frothy romps if ever I read one. Victorian werewolves and gay vampires of the more urbane sort, and a feisty heroine who hits things with her parasol. I'll probably replace them in e-book format because they're a fun guilty pleasure read. Unike the Laurell K. Hamilton, which, despite the claim of its title, is simply a terrible piece of writing. The John Brunner are definitely in the category of things I should have read an awful lot more than I have. The Peter Dickinson is one of his adult ones, which I don't think are as good as his kids' books. You will pry my considerable collection of Dickinson kids' books from my cold, dead hands.