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.

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