When I run, for some reason, I automatically gain speed going up hills. I simply push harder to get to the top. Ok, Dr. Bill, why do I seem to have that impulse? When I read a really bad book, I keep turning pages hoping it will be over soon. I impose rules like , if I hate the book in a 100 pages , put it down. But I simply cannot make myself stick to that rule.
The Scarppetta Factor is the most ridiculous attempt at a mystery or crime novel ever written. I am on page 398 and there is no rhyme or reason this book should have ever been thought of as a story; it is a complete waste of paper. In fact, I will go further, the alphabet was savagely mauled in the book’s formation. I cannot think of one reason for this book to exist except for critics to pan it.
Sometimes, I am a book snob. I wanted to prove to myself that I could read a pedestrian book. Admittedly, every once in a while, I will pick up a book to find amusement and laughs, such as the Janet Evanovitch works, or the Celia Rivenbark essays. (I actually think those are fine pearls of current social commentary, LOL) You all know I decided to read Les Miserables and despite the 100’s of pages devoted to long decayed street scenes and doleful battle scenes which made me beg for a vision of a single blade of St. Augustine grass to break the drab browns that keep popping up in my mind’s eye, I enjoyed the whole darn thing.
But, this Cornwell book , is so filled with gradu ( some spell that gradoux) that I expect to read of monkeys wearing diamond rings and snorting cocaine at any minute. What is with the kitchen sink approach to her work? What, she can’t afford an editor? Or is she so enamored with herself as a writer, she thinks her sentences make cohesive sense? The woman must be highly medicated. I am not even going to begin to explain the lunacy of her split plots.
I have invested so much energy trying to find three complete, consecutive pages of interest, that I am probably only 150 pages until the misery is over. I feel that urge to hurry up until the end…. To reach that glorious mountaintop, the second when I can throw the book to the curb outside and watch the garbage man run over it and heavy traffic continues to pulverize it into dust floating off to an encounter a distant land.
Will the scars remain? Will I ever get over this desire to read unwarranted novels? I need an intervention.
I am reminded of the famous quote by French novelist and playwright, Hippolyte Jean Giraudoux, “Only the mediocre are always at their best.”