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I took up John le Carre's A Perfect Spy, a tome of 704 pages, because I was so stunned by an autobiographical piece by the same author in The New Yorker (Feb. 18, 2002). His father was a clever con artist over decades, and his son – and scores of other admirers – were alternately charmed and left feeling taken in and ultimately abandoned. I had given up on the spy novels several times – too densely written, too melancholy, plus I'm a bit too young to identify with Cold War dramas. This novel was said to be his most autobiographical, and I wanted to learn more.