My father left this book at my house with the comment, "I can't get into this one, maybe you'll like it."

So with that glowing recommendation, it sat on my shelf for months, until I needed something to pack for a long-haul flight to Europe, and so it found its way into my luggage -- not without some misgivings on my part. "I'm boarding a ten-hour flight with no wifi and no seat-back TV," I texted a friend before taking off. "I only have one book with me, so here's hoping it's not too awful."

Suffice to say that, as far as my packing decisions go, I have no regrets. The blurb that compares it to Alexandre Dumas written by Umberto Eco by way of Jorge Luis Borges wasn't too far off the mark.

It is not without its flaws, but I forgive it those because I'm easily won over by stories-within-stories; gothic themes of mystery, tragic love, fate, obsession and madness; and depictions of a particular time and place (Zafón knocks this last one of the park with his extraordinarily vivid Barcelona).

Like [b:Palimpsest|3973532|Palimpsest|Catherynne M. Valente|https://d202m5krfqbpi5.cloudfront.net/books/1320532857s/3973532.jpg|4019291], I love this book without being able to tell if it's a genuinely good book wrapped in the trappings of a guilty pleasure or vice versa.