My favourite author?

I have read three books of fiction in quick succession: Anthony Trollope's The Small House At Allington, a collection of short stories by Patrick White and Yann Martel's The Life of Pi (Christmas present from my sister—thanks, Faith!). It would be hard to imagine a greater difference of writing styles, never mind the subject matter, but I found them all compulsive reads. This just goes to show that the silly question—"Who is your favourite author?"—is impossible to answer.

Random samples from the three books ...

Trollope:

It was of the Lady Rosina that the servants were afraid, especially with reference to that so-called day of rest which, under her dominion, had become to many of them a day of restless torment. It had not always been so with the Lady Rosina; but her eyes had been opened by the wife of a great church dignitary in the neighbourhood, and she had undergone regeneration. How great may be the misery inflicted by an energetic, unmarried, healthy woman in that condition, a woman with no husband, or children, or duties, to distract her from her work, I pray that my readers may never know.

White:

Well-meaning people would call to her over the front fence, 'Don't you feel lonely, Mrs Natwick?" They spoke with a restrained horror, as though she had been suffering from an incurable disease.
But she called back proud and slow, "I'm under sedation.'
'Arrr!' They nodded thoughtfully. 'What's 'e given yer?'
She shook her head. 'Pills,' she called back. 'They say they're the ones the actress died of.'
The people walked on, impressed.

Martel:

During those days of plenty, I laid hands on so many fish that my body began to glitter from all the fish scales that became stuck to it. I wore these spots of shine and silver like tilaks, the marks of colour that we Hindus wear on our foreheads as symbols of the divine. If sailors had come upon me then, I'm sure they would have though I was a fish god standing atop his kingdom and they wouldn't have stopped. Those were the good days. They were rare.

I'm now reading a translation of Goethe's Faust. And that's another story.