SimonBrooke
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- Mar 5, 2005
- Posts
- 1,139
OK, Literotica is not exactly the home of fine writing. But even by Literotica's standards Dan Brown is at best poor. His characters are not so much cardboard as tissue paper - not merely two dimensional but thin. The plots - I'd like to make some comments about Mr Brown's plots, but I'm afraid I can't. He doesn't have any. He wouldn't know a plot if fell on him out of a tree.
In the Da Vinci Code, you have a group comprising a cryptanalyst, a professor of religious iconography, and a specialist historian who can't recognise plain English mirror writing, and who, when standing by the tomb of a man about whom exactly one story is known to every schoolchild in the western world (see paragraph above), and with a very explicit clue in hand, take half an hour to remember that story.
D'oh!
The book is full of detail, yes - but the detail is all wrong. All shoddy. In Dan Brown's world the Metropolitan Police carry guns, and Roslin Chapel is on a moor. And I simply do not need to know whether a Hawker 731 executive jet has twin Garrett TFE-731 engines. It does not help the story in any way at all.
This is literature for the illiterate, puzzles for the permanently puzzled, brain-candy for the brainless. And now this McGonagall of the narrative art - this Eddie the Eagle of exposition - writes another steaming pile of pulp-mill fodder, some buffoon publishes it, and they get nine yards of free publicity in every media outlet known to man.
Hey! Wake up! Smell the shit!
I am not going to say I flatter myself I'm better than him. I am better than him. It-s no flattery - that dead smoked fish on my breakfast plate is a better fucking novelist than him. So how come he gets published and I can't?
In the Da Vinci Code, you have a group comprising a cryptanalyst, a professor of religious iconography, and a specialist historian who can't recognise plain English mirror writing, and who, when standing by the tomb of a man about whom exactly one story is known to every schoolchild in the western world (see paragraph above), and with a very explicit clue in hand, take half an hour to remember that story.
D'oh!
The book is full of detail, yes - but the detail is all wrong. All shoddy. In Dan Brown's world the Metropolitan Police carry guns, and Roslin Chapel is on a moor. And I simply do not need to know whether a Hawker 731 executive jet has twin Garrett TFE-731 engines. It does not help the story in any way at all.
This is literature for the illiterate, puzzles for the permanently puzzled, brain-candy for the brainless. And now this McGonagall of the narrative art - this Eddie the Eagle of exposition - writes another steaming pile of pulp-mill fodder, some buffoon publishes it, and they get nine yards of free publicity in every media outlet known to man.
Hey! Wake up! Smell the shit!
I am not going to say I flatter myself I'm better than him. I am better than him. It-s no flattery - that dead smoked fish on my breakfast plate is a better fucking novelist than him. So how come he gets published and I can't?