How to spot good writing

Today I did what I suggested in the last note I posted: I read aloud to Wendy the Introduction and part of Chapter 1 of Bill Bryson's new book, At Home. Out loud, his words read mellifluously, proof if proof were needed, that he writes extremely well. This experiment will continue for as long as Wendy wants it to continue. I haven't read aloud since we lived in Edinburgh in the 1960s: I had a commodious chair in which I sat with Rebecca and David beside me, each perched on a low, broad arm of the chair, and skinny little runt Jonathan beside me. Whatever happened to that chair? Why didn't we bring it to Canada with us, in the same way we brought our piano, the breakfront bookcase and several other living room chairs? I missed that chair for years; I suppose someone made an offer for it that we couldn't refuse. But I digress. I was writing about reading aloud. I treasure the memory of those reading aloud evening experiences because they were so pleasurable; and what made them so was only partly that in this way I bonded more closely to all three children. Another part of the experience was that we read some of the greatest works in the English language -- children's books to be sure, but great literature nevertheless. Reading Bill Bryson aloud is as pleasurable because he is such a fine writer.