Snow, by Orhan Pamuk

I've been putting off writing this review for a while, because I'd like it to be brilliant, to be an insightful analysis of why, exactly, I was so bored by this acclaimed work by a Nobel Prize winner, but, after weeks (weeks!) of thinking about it, I still can't quite put my finger on it. This was a deep work, philosophically important, and very well-written (and I thought the translation was good, too), but it was also, alas, dry and slow-moving, with what I suspect must be cultural factors acting as a barrier for me to understand the characters and their motivations. I'll give Pamuk another chance, but I must say, based on this book, I'm not ready to admit him into the canon of People Who Deserved Their Awards.