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A review by showell
Verses for the Dead by Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child
4.0
There is something comforting about returning to a series with so many predictable plot elements. I know what I’m going to get with a Pendergast mystery down to the language in which the characters are going to be described, and that sort of familiarity is especially valuable to me right now.
I started reading these series back in the day when print was the only option. Over the years, I began reading them as ebooks. But lately, I've taken to simply checking the audiobooks out as they become available from my local library.
Although they had different narrators for the earlier books in the series, Rene Auberjonois has narrated every Pendergast audiobook I've listened to so far. At first, I didn't care for his style. He was a little too snooty for my taste.
Listening to this book in quarantine however, I found the little extra touch of arrogance that creeps into his voice when he explains yet again that Pendergast is one of the few humans to have ever mastered the deep meditative art of Chongg Ran, taught to him in only a year by Tibetan monks oddly comforting. It turned what could have been an irritating repetitive description into an essential part of the Pendergast experience. The sheer campiness of it was comforting. This, at least, remains the same.
I started reading these series back in the day when print was the only option. Over the years, I began reading them as ebooks. But lately, I've taken to simply checking the audiobooks out as they become available from my local library.
Although they had different narrators for the earlier books in the series, Rene Auberjonois has narrated every Pendergast audiobook I've listened to so far. At first, I didn't care for his style. He was a little too snooty for my taste.
Listening to this book in quarantine however, I found the little extra touch of arrogance that creeps into his voice when he explains yet again that Pendergast is one of the few humans to have ever mastered the deep meditative art of Chongg Ran, taught to him in only a year by Tibetan monks oddly comforting. It turned what could have been an irritating repetitive description into an essential part of the Pendergast experience. The sheer campiness of it was comforting. This, at least, remains the same.