Hellegance of the Edgehog.

(Which is my co-worker Mark's proposed zombie sequel.)

My fancy-pants French translation is on hold for a bit whilst I read Dead Until Dark, the first in Charlaine Harris's Sookie Stackhouse vampire-y romance-y mystery novels (inspiration for True Blood, if you have HBO. I don't.) Lest you think this is dipping too low in the lit echelon, allow me to quote from pg. 76 of Elegance of the Hedgehog:

"I learned that this contamination of my aspiration to high culture by my penchant for lower forms of culture does not necessarily represent the indelible mark of my lowly origins . . . but is, rather, a contemporary characteristic of the dominant intellectual class. . . . As part of a study on the evolution of the cultural practices of intellectuals who had once been immersed in highbrow culture from dawn to dusk but who were now mainstays of syncretism in whom the borders between high and low culture were irreversibly blurred, my sociologist described a classics professor who, once upon a time, would have listened to Bach, read Mauriac, and watched art-house films, but nowadays listened to Handel and MC Solaar, read Flaubert and John le Carre, went to see Visconti and the latest Die Hard, and ate hamburgers at lunch and sashimi in the evening."

So you see, I'm perfectly normal.