One book that is great, however, is Snow by Orhan Pamuk. A reporter visits a remote town in Turkey to track down the last months in the life of a now-dead poet friend of his. He has, however, stumbled into the middle of an east-meets-west conflict between pro-western intellectuals and Muslim reactionaries. It snows for the entire book, and the name of the town translates to snow in the local language. It is full of nifty writing and symbolism, most of which I'm sure was lost on me. I'm tempted to read it again someday, which is a rare honor from me since I read so slowly I don't often want to invest the time to. reread something.