A book review of what appears to be an interesting novel in its own right, leads to an older novel by the same author (with thirty or so preview pages), which is so dense with ideas, and above all, beautiful writing, that he will be trekking to the bookstore after work this evening to purchase, and consume, later in the wee hours of the night.

In passing, mentions of other recent books that managed to put a dent in his head: Orhan Pamuk's "Istanbul" (a Seabald-ian book with its pitch perfect black and white photographs), Philip Gourevitch's fierce "We Wish to Inform You That Tomorrow We Will Be Killed With Our Families: Stories from Rwanda" (on reading some accounts of doctors and priests turned genocidaires, a line from Milosz came back to him, "that good spirits, not evil ones, choose us for their instrument"), and W.B. Keckler's enigmatic book of poems "Sanskrit of the Body" (a book which he resisted even flipping through in a bookstore a while ago, given the near-cliché implied by its title).