I abandon books so rarely that when I say that I have chosen not to finish Snow by Orhan Pamuk, I want you to understand my full meaning.
Snow came highly recommended by both my former housemates, particularly Kali. By the summaries provided—a journalist-poet finally returned to Turkey from years of political exile goes to a small town to cover the municipal elections and to investigate a curious string of young girl suicides—I thought I would find it interesting, too. However, what the Spectator calls “a gripping political thriller” is anything but. Considering that I have read 358 of this book’s 436 pages, I am not putting this book down lightly. I have enumerated my negative responses behind the cut. Read them if you wish.