Helpful Score: 16
First Line: My name is Wilkie Collins, and my guess, since I plan to delay the publication of this document for at least a century and a quarter beyond the date of my demise, is that you do not recognize my name.
Mr. Collins' plan went slightly awry in my case. I have eight of his novels in my library. Of course, I also have twenty-five of Dickens', which I do believe wouldn't set well with him at all.
There is a lot to like about this novel. Simmons' research into Victorian England as well as the lives and writings of both Dickens and Collins is exhaustive and insightful. The setting comes to life beneath his pen, particularly the smells. (If your olfactory sense is particularly acute, I would suggest having a handkerchief sprinkled with eau de cologne on stand-by.) The premise of the novel is the last five years of Charles Dickens' life, the basis of his last, unfinished, novel, The Mystery of Edwin Drood, and his friendship with Wilkie Collins. The mysterious figure of Drood is genuinely creepy at the beginning, and I read along, happily immersed in the pitch black streets of Dickens' Great Oven and caught up in the lives of the two authors. After all, this is one of my favorite time periods and two of my favorite writers.
But halfway through this gargantuan book, my pleasure rapidly began to fade, and it was then that I came to the conclusion that Simmons is just not the author for me. You see, I also tried to read his book, The Terror, and stopped shortly after the 150-page mark because I cared nothing for the characters and didn't appreciate the lack of action. Any action. I found the same thing happening in Drood. This book is almost 800 pages long, and it took half that before anything really started happening in the book. The creepiness of Drood faded, and what could have been a crafty, scary read turned into a dragging tale of jealousy and spite. All along, I felt as if the book set me up for an explosive conclusion, but it wasn't. The ending just seemed to waft away in a cloud of snarkiness and opium fumes. After reading almost 800 pages that did contain flashes of brilliance, I was left feeling that somewhere in all that paper and print, there was a tight, compelling 300-page thriller screaming to be turned loose.
I'm sorry, Mr. Simmons. You're just not the author for me. Since you seem to have quite a following, I'm certain I won't be missed.
Mr. Collins' plan went slightly awry in my case. I have eight of his novels in my library. Of course, I also have twenty-five of Dickens', which I do believe wouldn't set well with him at all.
There is a lot to like about this novel. Simmons' research into Victorian England as well as the lives and writings of both Dickens and Collins is exhaustive and insightful. The setting comes to life beneath his pen, particularly the smells. (If your olfactory sense is particularly acute, I would suggest having a handkerchief sprinkled with eau de cologne on stand-by.) The premise of the novel is the last five years of Charles Dickens' life, the basis of his last, unfinished, novel, The Mystery of Edwin Drood, and his friendship with Wilkie Collins. The mysterious figure of Drood is genuinely creepy at the beginning, and I read along, happily immersed in the pitch black streets of Dickens' Great Oven and caught up in the lives of the two authors. After all, this is one of my favorite time periods and two of my favorite writers.
But halfway through this gargantuan book, my pleasure rapidly began to fade, and it was then that I came to the conclusion that Simmons is just not the author for me. You see, I also tried to read his book, The Terror, and stopped shortly after the 150-page mark because I cared nothing for the characters and didn't appreciate the lack of action. Any action. I found the same thing happening in Drood. This book is almost 800 pages long, and it took half that before anything really started happening in the book. The creepiness of Drood faded, and what could have been a crafty, scary read turned into a dragging tale of jealousy and spite. All along, I felt as if the book set me up for an explosive conclusion, but it wasn't. The ending just seemed to waft away in a cloud of snarkiness and opium fumes. After reading almost 800 pages that did contain flashes of brilliance, I was left feeling that somewhere in all that paper and print, there was a tight, compelling 300-page thriller screaming to be turned loose.
I'm sorry, Mr. Simmons. You're just not the author for me. Since you seem to have quite a following, I'm certain I won't be missed.
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