The first five times (or so) that I paged through the Atlas of Remote Islands: Fifty Islands I Have Never Set Foot On and Never Will, I fell deeply in love with the book. But I also didn't see it for what it really is. The problem wasn't that of the early stages of romance between people: I wasn't blinded to the book's faults but, instead, I underestimated the extent of its charms. Though the elegantly-lettered first words of the preface caught my eye, "Paradise is an island. So is hell," I skipped over the text and went straight to the maps.