What I didn't do on World Book Day

I can't seem to get the hang of World Book Day.  Due to a homophonic misinterpretation, I used for many years to go into my garden and rapidly spin a selection of books around on customised rotary platforms, and now here I am posting a celebration of the same literary jamboree an entire day late.  My own contribution imagines a scenario whereby a series of well-known literary works has collided with a world atlas, and runs thus:

For whom the Belgian Tolls

The Ecuadors of Perception

Kurdsong

East of Sweden

Ghana Karenina

Dane Eyre

Dutch ado about Nothing

Taiwan Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest

As the Croat Flies


Which reminds me, it's at least four and a half blog posts since I mentioned that novel in translation which I have most recently read. So, in the cause of snapping our parochial fetters and fostering a spirit of international progression and bonhomie, and not at all because I am working part-time for the publisher, let me again direct your book-buying pennies towards The Scream, by Laurent Graff.  Resisting the temptation to say that it's printed on Graff paper, I will simply observe that for those of you - and I know you are legion - who have been clamouring for a book the hero of which is  (or at least claims to be) a motorway toll-booth operator, your time has come.

Bonsoir.