A review by offbalance80
Verses for the Dead by Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child
2.0
The greatest thing about Pendergast and the series he starred in was that it was never boring. There was always something delightfully left of center to look forward to. The man himself was always counted on for biting repartee and interesting insights, and there was a terrific gallery of players that played off of him and built out a delicious world that a reader relished being a part of.
Well, once upon a time, at any rate.
It's no secret that it's difficult to keep momentum after eight books, let alone eighteen, but one would hope that any author (or team of authors) out of ideas would simply give up after they had run their course. Obviously, Pendergast is a cash cow, and they can probably trade on his name for a few more books. The spark and joy are long gone - far gone. The boredom was palpable in every page, despite a halfhearted attempt to make Coldmoon a compelling foil for the marquee character.
This is a perfectly adequate, by the numbers murder mystery. Only problem is that the Pendergast series was NEVER simply a paint by number sort of affair. What's worse, is that this tale was so airless that the splashy de rigueur finale that put the detectives in peril not only did not feel unearned, it felt downright unnecessary.
The worst part of all this is that if they keep writing these damn books, I'll probably grudgingly keep reading them. But their best days are behind them. It does take a significant talent to convey your own boredom with writing a character through that own character's ennui in his own life, and that the book has in spades. Although whether it was a meta choice or simply an accident is unknowable.
Well, once upon a time, at any rate.
It's no secret that it's difficult to keep momentum after eight books, let alone eighteen, but one would hope that any author (or team of authors) out of ideas would simply give up after they had run their course. Obviously, Pendergast is a cash cow, and they can probably trade on his name for a few more books. The spark and joy are long gone - far gone. The boredom was palpable in every page, despite a halfhearted attempt to make Coldmoon a compelling foil for the marquee character.
This is a perfectly adequate, by the numbers murder mystery. Only problem is that the Pendergast series was NEVER simply a paint by number sort of affair. What's worse, is that this tale was so airless that the splashy de rigueur finale that put the detectives in peril not only did not feel unearned, it felt downright unnecessary.
The worst part of all this is that if they keep writing these damn books, I'll probably grudgingly keep reading them. But their best days are behind them. It does take a significant talent to convey your own boredom with writing a character through that own character's ennui in his own life, and that the book has in spades. Although whether it was a meta choice or simply an accident is unknowable.