NYT best books

I've read two of the fiction picks. Ian McEwan's Saturday is up to his usual standards, even though I can't find merit in his justification for ambivalence about the war. Zadie Smith's On Beauty is a disappointment: like her character Carl, she's become so wrapped up in proving herself to the intelligensia (this is a real, literary novel! Based on Forster!) that's she's left behind what made her vital in the first place. Still, anyone who thinks you should never, ever sing U2 songs a cappella will find something to cheer.