This weekend, I finished Michael Chabon's The Yiddish Policeman's Union, which--despite an ultimately far-fetched explanation for the central plot point--I absolutely loved. The marvel of the book is that the world Chabon creates feels so real that it's easy to forget that all of it--Sitka as the temporary Alaskan homeland of the Jews, the various sects, &c.--is imaginary.
As the review from the New York Times puts it: "More important, Mr. Chabon has so thoroughly conjured the fictional world of Sitka — its history, culture, geography, its incestuous and byzantine political and sectarian divisions — that the reader comes to take its existence for granted."
One of my favorite passages:
Landsman taps the wheel, considering his promises and their worth. He was never unfaithful to Bina. But there is no doubt that what broke the marriage was Landsman's lack of faith. A faith not in God, nor in Bina and her character, but in the fundamental precept that everything befalling them from the moment they met, good and bad, was meant to be. The foolish coyote faith that could keep you flying as long as you kept kidding yourself that you could fly.