You know when you have a friend, and they suddenly discover a band that you’ve always loved? Remember how retarded they sounded when they tried to talk to you about the band, and the resentment they built? You almost considered disowning them because you knew this already, and THEY weren’t even scratching the surface of your VAST knowledge on the subject. Remember that feeling? I just wasted about three hours of my life with the most vapid, blithering, concocted, mass produced, pseudo-intellectualist, piece of fluff-lit, that my hands have ever come in contact with. I have read the literary equivalent of Paris Hilton, and damaged my sensibilities, possibly forever. The thoroughly researched (If by research you mean a google search on the Vatican, and the Illuminati) piece titled Angels and Demons, was the precursor to the slightly superior piece of shit, The Da Vinci Code. As I gaze at the beaten paperback copy of this (Beaten because I threw it several times) master-crappery, I read the back cover and a man professes his love for the author, Dan Brown.
“Dan Brown has to be one of the best, smartest, and most accomplished writers in the country”
“Nelson DeMille has to be one of the dumbest, most illiterate, bumpkins in the country. Either that, or he’s a computer literate chimp.”
Why anyone bought this book, or the equally watered down and ridiculously simple DaVinci Code, eludes me. Harry Potter with all it’s acquiescence to children is still more sophisticated in its turn of phrase and less apologetic in its skin that the tragically retarded Angels and Demons . Dare to imagine with me here, a world with a super secret society that leaves behind a map and secret clues. Now imagine these clues to be so simple that a blind, deaf and wheelchair bound child, could easily decipher them, and now watch as the Vatican, a Harvard professor, and an Arabic “Hassasin” (Google it like the Author did) all get mixed up like an unsophisticated Marx brothers film. To say I loathed this book would be too kind. I hate the publishers for throwing out this dribble, I hate the Author for writing it, I hate my friend for offering it, and I hate myself for almost finishing it.
I was Four pages from the end, and could care less.