Thursday, June 24, 2004
You know what? Alan Dean Foster isn't the great writer I remember him being. It's been ages since I've read one of his books and either my standards have gotten higher and my tastes more refined or he's gotten worse because Flinx's Folly is really lacking in the style department. Story-wise it's okay - a fairly typical Flinx adventure. You know, all imminent threat to the universe, many people trying to kill and/or study him, Pip killing someone by spitting venom, etc. But wow, he just doesn't have the command of the language that, say, William Gibson has. It's not a horrible book and didn't make me roll my eyes or anything, but it was definitely on the merely competent side of good. It's a disappointing discovery because I've considered his The Damned trilogy as one of my favorites for years and now I suspect when I read it again I will find it wholly ordinary. Maybe I've just grown out of him. There have been many authors that I once adored and devoured everything they wrote who now I can't stand. Richard North Patterson. James Patterson. Mary Higgins Clark, even. That last one still baffles me and I can only blame the raging hormones of adolescence for clouding my brain. So now I have this urge to dig into the boxes of books in the garage for those I loved in high school and college but haven't read since to see just how crappy they actually are. On the plus side, this will definitely help me downsize my collection...
|
Comments:
Post a Comment
