Stepping out of genre for a few hundred pages to try out Snow,
by Orhan Pamuk. Three chapters in, and I’ve yet to really get engrossed. The
writing is very good, but either Pamuk’s narrative detachment or my own withering
sinus issues are leaving me, ahem, cold. Doesn’t help to be reading the Vintage International edition, with its patented TooSmallToBeLegible™ typeface. Planning on sticking with it for awhile
though.
Don’t take my sniffly word for it, here’s what other, better edumacated folks
have to say:
