Wodehouse: The Small Bachelor (meh), Love Among the Chickens (meh), all the Psmith books (awesome; had already read two or three).
Some not-so-hot Ian Rankin books: Hide and Seek, The Black Book, Mortal Causes, Strip Jack, and one -- Tooth and Nail -- which was so creepy I decided I was done with Rankin and Rebus, who I never liked much anyway.
Probably the best thing I read in 2010: Dombey and Son. Dickens was a genius who understood the human mind and heart. And what flat-out awesome prose he could produce:
Dombey was about eight-and-forty years of age. Son about eight-and-forty minutes. Dombey was rather bald, rather red, and though a handsome well-made man, too stern and pompous in appearance, to be prepossessing. Son was very bald, and very red, and though (of course) an undeniably fine infant, somewhat crushed and spotty in his general effect, as yet. On the brow of Dombey, Time and his brother Care had set some marks, as on a tree that was to come down in good time - remorseless twins they are for striding through their human forests, notching as they go - while the countenance of Son was crossed with a thousand little creases, which the same deceitful Time would take delight in smoothing out and wearing away with the flat part of his scythe, as a preparation of the surface for his deeper operations.Sigh.
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