Well I went back to the Tamminem Quarry today, and spent several hot hours hammering rocks in the sun, but I enjoyed myself.  Last night I stayed up late to finish The Book of the Dead by Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child, even though I hated practically every minute of it…

Rididulously melodramatic, this novel stars the improbable Special Agent Prendergast, as apparently do many of the novels written by Preston and Child.  It became rapidly apparent that Prendergast was essentially superhuman.  The story quickly devolved into nonsense and I began to actively loathe the whole wretched mess.  Our hero solves intractable problems, and the solutions are described in a manner which manages to hide actually what it is the hero does to prevail.  Blah.  It struck me as something I or some other teenager might write in highschool.  I mean let's face it, when you are 15 and writing about a mysterious woman what color are her eyes?  Most kids go for green or violet, the former being unusual and the latter?  I'm not even sure it's possible.

Book of the dead features no less than TWO unrelated female characters with violet eyes (give me a break.)  It's a tiny example, but you get the idea.  Aloysius Prendergast also has an arch-nemesis, Diogenes Prendergast (yes, ridiculous nomenclature is also par for the course) who happens to be his brother (of course), and insane.  Driven mad, it seems, by a circa-1900 projection device which projected pictures using glass etchings.  Yes, it is every bit as ridiculous as it sounds.

Nonetheless I slogged through it, and finally finished the bloody thing in the wee hours of the morning.  I actively dislike quitting books, even bad ones, and I do so very rarely.  It was only then reading the section at the end (an addendum by the authors describing the order their books should be read in) that I spotted something familiar.  These are the same authors who wrote “Thunderhead“, a book I tried to read during a vacation to Papoose Pond two years ago.  And what did I have to say at that time?

…Back at the camper I started reading Thunderhead by Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child. On the cover there is a review quote: Chilling… redefines 'page-turner.' — Denver Rocky Mountain News. A hundred pages in it became extremely clear that this novel was a piece of crap. Boring and utterly two-dimensional characters stumbling through a bland unidirectional and predictable plot. Couple this with poor writing and you get a book that I am not going to trouble myself with any further. Thunderhead goes back in the bag. Next time I donate books or have a yard sale, this one is gone. Redefines page-turner? I'll say, if the new definition is “painfully boring”, that is…

It struck me as funny how everything done right with dear old Gideon Oliver of the Elkins novels is done wrong with Aloysius Prendergast in the Preston/Child novels.  Gideon is likeable, decidedly smart, but very fallible, quirky, and funny… a perfect hero.  I may not be a genius, but I can identify with Oliver.  Prendergast on the other hand, is essentially an invincible comic book superhero, and one whom, by the way, the authors clearly take wayyy too seriously.  It is impossible to identify with him, because he is so patently ridiculous and improbable a creature.

I have to grant, of course, that the Preston/Child novels are definitely making best seller lists, so somebody must be enjoying them, but it sure isn't me.  Ah well, I'm a pretty odd bird myself.  Perhaps what I find irritating about Prendergast is exactly what others love about him.  Anyway, twice bitten, I've learned my lesson and will steer clear of Preston/Child books in the future.