I read newspapers, magazines, works of nonfiction, but my true love is fiction. In these three novels, the characters and situations were so alive to me I didn’t want their stories to end: Jonathan Franzen’s “Freedom,” Chad Harbaugh’s “The Art of Fielding,” and Jeffrey Eugenides’ “The Marriage Plot.”

Paul Auster’s “Sunset Park” was another favorite. Enchanted, I am reading slowly Michael Ondaatje’s “The Cat’s Table.”

A play, a retrospective and a biography brought me the lives of three artists and their creative process. Each left me astonished. There was Mark Rothko in John Logan’s “Red” at the Goodman Theatre, the Willem de Kooning retrospective at New York’s Museum of Modern Art (through January 9), Patricia Alber’s biography “Joan Mitchell: Lady Painter.”

Art and books combine in the work of two friends, both photographers.

Haunting me are the lush, eery photographs of American children, teens, couples and families in Lydia Panas’ first monograph, “The Mark of Abel.” www.lydiapanas.com/book. Chester Alamo’s “The Globe” captures the beauty, color and passion of fans at a Chicago bar that offers live telecasts of European soccer. www.amazon.com/Globe-Chester-Alamo-Costello/dp/0615339417/ref=cm_cr_pr_pb_t

I continue to be awed by my sons’ achievements in photography http://www.masondent.com/ and sports journalism http://supercursed.blogspot.com/, by my niece’s comic art and humor. http://comics.lucyknisley.com/2011/10/scaredcited-page-2/

Memorable movies this year include the smart, sexy remake of “Jane Eyre,” the plotless but mesmerizing “Tree of Life,” the hilariously foul “Bridesmaids. The one film I many never get out of my head: Pedro Almodovar’s “The Skin I Live In.” Beautiful, bizarre, shocking.

One stage play held me in its grip: “The God of Carnage,” 70 minutes of ensemble acting at its best, at the Goodman Theatre. I admired “An Iliad” at Court Theatre (through December 14) even though we had terrible seats.

I am always thinking about my next meal, so it’s worth remembering some of the places that nourished me.

In Montreal (L’Entrecote St. Jean) and New York (Le Relais de Venise) I savored prix-fixe steak-only dinners that transported me to Paris.

In Chicago this year I’ve been dazzled by the farm-to-table offerings at Nightwood, Perennial Virant, and Blackbird. The fish tacos at GT Fish & Oyster. Anything at The Purple Pig. The limited but daring menu at Morso; also, its fabulous Wolfsbane cocktail. The seasonal tartines at Floriole, the frisee salad at Gemini Bistro, the exquisite service at Pelago. The ultra-thin pizza at Three Aces and a cocktail so beautiful I had to photograph it.

Finally, a welcome addition to my Lincoln Park neighborhood: City Grounds coffee bar, a clean well lighted place.

Thanks for reading. Best wishes for the New Year.

We didn’t, but here’s three we’d go to again:

Gaya par Pierre Gagnaire (44, rue du Bac). Don’t be put off by Gagnaire’s global celebrity. This spot is small, charming, hip and well run. Its kitchen puts out exquisite food at prices befitting the seasonality and execution of each dish. One could quibble over three ravioli for 20 euros, but I didn’t: each was filled with a different spring vegetable, and melted in my mouth. A Lac Leman whitefish filet ( 33 euros) was sided with a timbale of white beans and olives. Yum. One complaint: nearly an hour passed before dessert and coffee arrived.

We tried another feted chef’s affordable offerings at Atelier Maitre Albert (1, rue Maitre Albert), a Guy Savoy restaurant. Back home we’re still talking about the luscious soupe de moules, plank-grilled cabillaud, terrine de pamplemousse. We liked the old stone walls and dark but pleasing decor…also our cute, attentive waiter. (A prix fixe dinner is 32 euros.)

The others returned to Chicago but my friend Cathy and I had another day and night for art (Musee Rodin), shopping (Le Bon Marche, Dehillerin) and food. We both had a jones for mussels — not soupe de moules — just a bowl of meaty ones, steamed in white wine, shallots, parsley.

La Coupole (102, bd du Montparnasse) is known for its spectacular decor, seafood and excellent service. We got all three — but no mussels. Never mind: what a blast to dine at La Coupole! The room is vast and too brightly lit, but our table seemed intimate. There’s a constant cacophony, but we had not trouble conversing. It was a weeknight but completely packed with families, couples, old ladies.

Our meal was just right for a last night in Paris: a platter of oysters, salade fromage de chevre, foie gras, a grassy Chablis. (About 130 euros.)

First new find: Bert’s (4 avenue du president Wilson, and other locations in Paris). Coffees, pastries, sandwiches, salads all freshly made and reasonably priced, served up in a fashionably hip, dark wood setting. Une grande boisson chaude, un jus de fruits frais, un viennoiserie for 5.7 euros? A steal, especially in that neighborhood.

Le petit dejeuner a Carette

Another breakfast spot we loved: Carette, 4 place de Trocadero (also at Place des Vosges.) As we stood trying to decide among three spots an older Frenchman passed and said, of Carette: “C’est la meilleure patisserie a Paris.” Sold! We settled into a corner booth and ordered cafe creme, scrambled eggs (soupy: our one gripe), croissants, toasted baguettes. Wonderful service, reasonable prices.

One day for lunch we wandered into St.-Germain-des-Pres. So many places to eat! But one is blessed with sun: the terrace at Les Deux Magots (6 place Saint-Germain-des-Pres). Did we dare? Picasso ate there; so did Hemingway. We feared we’d be eating tourist slop. But the menu looked promising (selection, prices) and a sun-splashed table beckoned.

For our daring we received a perfect lunch in the sun served by a charming, attentive waiter. Fresh, lightly dressed salads, fluffy quiche, warm crusty bread. Adorable honeymooners, also from Chicago, but mostly locals; when Parisians eat at a famous place, it must be good.

Next post: our dinners in Paris.

“The Elegance of the Hedgehog” is one of those books. A 2007 prize-winner in France, it took me a few chapters to figure out the reason for its wide appeal. (By Muriel Barbery, translated from the French by Alison Anderson, Europa Books, $15.) A brief, unsigned review in The New Yorker led me to it.

Set in a luxury apartment building in the posh 7th arrondissement of Paris, the story is told in alternating chapters by Paloma, a precocious 12-year-old, and by the concierge, Renee, a frumpy lump of a woman who hides her intellect.

Why do we care about these two? Paloma is figuring out how to endure the inequities of this world; Renee needs a way in.

Playing the part of a typical concierge, Renee keeps a t.v. blaring by the door, and settles into a back room listening to Mahler, reading Tolstoy, spoiling her fat cat Leo.

It is Paloma who describes Renee as having the elegance of a hedgehog: “covered in quills…fiercely solitary.”

Paloma is a marvelous character. She pretends to be a typical child, but she’s not: she feels and thinks too deeply about all things, and so can’t see the point of living beyond 13. “The world is no place for princesses,” she declares. Among her complaints: her family’s disdain for the plight of African immigrants in Paris. Her suicide, she reasons, “will refresh their pea-brain memories.”

The arrival of a cultured Japanese businessman to the building changes them both. Renee sheds her self-made shell. (I nearly stood and cheered when she leaves the building to have her hair styled — and the source of her borrowed frocks is hilarious.)

For Paloma, M. Ozu is an adult she can admire. “I have met someone who seeks out others and who sees beyond.”

The ending is abrupt, and bittersweet. When I look at this book on my shelf, I want to crawl back into it.