I am in the second part of this book and it is like swimming in bad jello. There is a plot about a guy who gets out of prison and is getting revenge by killing all the people he feels is responsible, but you, the unlucky person who used a credit for this dreck, has to listen to how these very wealthy socialites buy fabulous houses in Connecticut and, if that is not boring enough, you also get to hear about furnishing them and about their dinner parties. Every woman alive throws themselves at the incredibly handsome protagonist and the murder mystery plot cannot advance without long descriptions of their incredible cars, lovemaking and dinners at expensive restaurants. I am on the side of the killer, I want all these people dead.
I have never read those breast heaving romantic novels of Barbara Cartland or Danielle Steele, but I suspect that is what is going on here.
Really, a bad book.
Right when I think that his descriptions of textures and colors and the pacing of his conversations were getting too thick or florid I would end the chapter amazed at the genius. Mr. Burke may be best writer living. I know that sounds a little over the top, but in my opinion, this book proves it. Will Patton is, in every way the perfect reader. Mark Hammer was a hard act to top as the reader of James Lee Burke, but Mr Patton has surpassed even him.
I love reading (listening to) history and I hate abridgement, but this reading was like listening to a modern version of Shakespeare. It requires ones full attention to hear sentences that your brain has to translate into modern American English. This is not the thing to listen to while you rebuild an engine. You just get lost and have to rewind to figure out what was said in the last 10 minutes. If I was British, I am sure that I would have had no problems. But I am not and it was too hard to follow.
Report Inappropriate Content