I'll save the jokes about the big game out there called Real Life, although that's where I've been for the past, what, month and a half. I came back from a long trip overseas on Wednesday with two pairs of Doc Martens and a whole stack of books. Of them, I've read two so far:

The Manual of Detection, Jedediah Berry. A charming, surreal take on the noir detective fiction genre, following office clerk Charles Unwin as he tries to solve the mystery of where a famous detective disappeared to, and why he was promoted to fill the detective's shoes. It's like City of the Lost Children meets Raymond Chandler, with a lot of charm, grace, and whimsy.

I, Lucifer, Glen Duncan. A strange little novel where Lucifer is offered a chance at redemption -- all he has to do is live out the life of a failed author who was about to commit suicide. He decides to try it out for a month, using the opportunity to write out his story -- and proves that he doesn't know nearly as much about himself, angels, or humanity as he thinks he does.