On with the motley! As in, motley collection of tomes mostly not sf or fantasy. A slew of historical, including the Dorothy Dunnet Lymond ones, and Jeffery Farnol; I am chucking the George Macdonald Fraser on the realisation that actually Flashman annoys me more than I enjoy the novels' agreeably warped view of history. The Robertson Davies is courtesy of a Jung-fancying aunt in early undergrad, and Jung really doesn't groove my ploons any more. I have absolutely no recollection of acquiring the Julian Barnes, it seems uncharacteristically highbrow of me - mother, if it's actually your book and I'm cavalierly disposing of it, please scream! (My mother's taste in literature is way more highbrow than mine, a point which probably wouldn't surprise my English department any). It is also something of a satisfaction to realise, lowbrow tastes notwithstanding, that I actually have no desire whatsoever to re-read Bridget Jones's Diary at any point. And apparently I've overcome the completist urge at least to some extent, I've kept the Couplands I actually enjoyed, and tossed the rest. The Chocolate Conscience is a history of the Quakers in the early chocolate industry, weirdly enough. It's kinda cute.