Only the other day: I was coming out of the dentist's on Bath Avenue (one must aspire!) and making my way along Grand Canal Street when the writer John Banville passed me. To borrow a phrase (and amend it slightly) he was looking elegantly isolated: scurrying along in his now trademark fedora with a satchel slung across his shoulder. For all I knew, as he perambulated so hurriedly, he was composing, in his fevered head, a lengthy passage of significant prose. Mildly starstruck, I stopped to compliment him on his writing. I wanted to tell him I'm a huge fan. "Hi, Mr Banville," I say. "My name is Brian." He stops in his tracks, slightly bemused, then looks at me expectantly as though waiting for a punchline. "I just want to say I love your writing," I continue. "Thank you very much," John says. There's a bit of an awkward silence. I'd like to let him know how his books, so many times, have helped me through dark n...