I have very few novels in hardback on my bookshelves, other than some of the classics (e.g. Les Miserables ). Of the modern genre, fewer than a dozen.
But the very first novel I bought in hardback — after destroying two paperback copies thereof — was Frederick Forsyth’s The Day Of The Jackal, which is quite possibly the greatest thriller ever written. (If you’ve never read it, get a copy now; you’ll thank me later. My copy is leather-bound, by the way, and I think I’ll read it yet again, because it’s been years.)
The story behind the novel, of which I knew nothing, is equally astonishing. And no, I’m not jealous of Forsyth’s success; I’m just in awe.