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Guilty pleasure: I'm not reading genre, like a good little geek should.

I'm reading The Black Book by Orhan Pamuk. I'm loving it. It's like a multi-POV-in-the-same-head Amarcord done in crewelwork on a dervish's dress while he's whirling his way through a newspaper. The writer effortlessly slips between first and third narrative talking about himself while his identity dissolves and coagulates like an alchemicist's Welsh Rarebit dream.

What a relief from the tedium of supernatural beings in sneakers!