by Dan Brown
The short version:
Robert Langdon embarks on yet another impromptu world tour, this time visiting Florence, Venice and Istanbul in one whirlwind day, taking on the forces of overpopulation, genetically engineered pathogens and his old standby claustrophobia along the way.
The darkest places in hell are reserved for those who maintain their neutrality in times of moral crisis.
I like thrillers. I like history, symbology, art. I love Europe. I should like this book.
I do not like this book.
While not technically a time of moral crisis, I refuse to risk earning my spot in the darkest places in hell by maintaining neutrality here. Dan Brown’s quirks drive me INSANE.
First off, he’s condescending. He seems to smirk as he writes, and the smug stylings of the pedantic windbag wear thin pretty quickly. Especially when I’ve figured something out long before he drapes his Harris tweed clad arm around my shoulder to offer the patronizing explanation.
Being a brilliant Harvard professor is great. Flaunting it is not.
Learning new stuff about old stuff is the main reason to read this guy— he researches for years, and the resulting novels are jam-packed with all kinds of crap you never knew you didn’t know. It’s kind of awe-inspiring. But he overdoes it.
Nobody has that many facts, figures, names and dates in mind, especially not a guy caught off guard who has supposedly been shot in the head and is suffering from the resulting amnesia. And nobody runs (runs, mind you– with a head wound) into that many knowledgeable people along the way to saving the world, all entering the scene at just the right moment with the exact tidbit of data needed to solve the next clue. Heck, even the water taxi driver was a fountain of helpful information.
Deus ex machina, anyone?
This is a multi-page post in response to Weekly Writing Challenge: Clicking Through the Pages. The page numbers are ↓ down there ↓