He has now won a Costa prize twice - once for his first novel A Good Man in Africa a quarter of a century ago, and again this week for a thriller Restless - yet some in the literary establishment still feel slightly guilty about enjoying William Boyd. A Boyd novel is not as angry as an Amis, not as exotically strange as a Rushdie, occasionally too neatly tied together for its own good - in short, perhaps, a little too bourgeois, or, perish the thought, too readable.
Or, perish the thought, not really all that good. Just who are these establishment types losing sleep over enjoying Boyd? As tends to be the way with this kind of article, the author doesn't say, raising the possibility - gosh, not again! - that we have here yet another example of the "literary snob" strawman. He certainly is a busy chap these days.