I am recently reading two excellent books
1. Istanbul, by Orhan Pamuk
2. The Art of the Novel , by Milan Kundera
Suffice to say that they have such fine prose descriptions in a kind of meditative melancholy that i admire as profound. The insights and the directness of their approach strike a (perhaps sad) chord in me. This is such contrast to another wonderful book i am reading currently, Walden By Henry David Thoreau which is such an earnest book filled with honest essays brimming with such insight, knowledge and far sightedness coupled with a characteristic sincerity that it feels so great that one is in contact with these great works of Art.