The sad thing is, I know I’m going to end up reading this Dan Brown novel. And I know I’m going to like the plot, despite all the contrived “suspense” Brown tries to create, and enjoy the book enough to hate myself afterward. Maybe he’s a better author than I give him credit for, because his stories can captivate me even though they annoy me to no end, and from the moment I pick up the book until I set it down, I actually care about the characters, however briefly. I actually want to see what happens.

Meh. I guess I have another guilty pleasure. His name is Dan Brown. And also, I’m a masochist.