I am reading a fantastic book at the moment: The Glass of Time by Michael Cox. This extraordinary man wrote while going blind and dying of cancer. When preparing for one of his surgeries he apparently was put on some steroids that gave him enormous energy and he decided to tackle the great ghost novel that had been on his mind for the last thirty years. He wrote not one but two books before he died last year.
The one I am reading--the second--is bold and sure and breathtaking in its scope. It is a sort of hazy Victorian green atmosphere and built with sharp language that slices right through. I love it. Wait for a rainy day when no book has obsessed you for a bit and then read it!