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I didn't mind this because I like fast paced books but I really felt that there was too much going on? The Hannibal books are some of my very favourite books, the character development is amazing. There was none of that in this book though... You have a child soldier, a sadistic mutilating killer, Pablo Escobars home that has a boobie trapped box of gold, the ten bells gang, the ICE officer who wants vengeance for his wife (slightly reminiscent of Crawford and his wife?) Oh there is also the mob boss and Jesus who is dying but wants money for his family... And all this in 311 pages? It just seemed a bit confused and rushed...
I adore the Hannibal books but a character like him only comes along once in a generation. Cari Mora is a totally engaging thriller, touching on important issues like immigration, sexism, and the plight of refugees, and it has an appropriately creepy villain with very particular sadistic tendencies, but for me, it lacks that special something Hannibal Lecter has as a character..
adventurous
challenging
dark
emotional
informative
inspiring
sad
tense
slow-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
Character
Strong character development:
No
Loveable characters:
Complicated
Diverse cast of characters:
Yes
Flaws of characters a main focus:
No
adventurous
challenging
mysterious
tense
fast-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
Plot
Strong character development:
Yes
Loveable characters:
Yes
Diverse cast of characters:
Yes
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Yes
Well, I had hoped this book would live up to the Hannibal series levels of genius that I had loved from Thomas Harris, but I found Cari Mora thoroughly boring. I’m not entirely sure what it was about as I really didn’t care, though there were parts that I thought would get interesting. That never happened.
Still a fun thriller but not as much dazzle as any of the Hannibal books. I feel like character of Cari could have done more. She has an amazing back story. I would love to see more of her kicking ass and taking names.
2.5 stars. I’ve been waiting over a decade for a new Thomas Harris novel -- and not even sure one would arrive before he eventually retired or passed away -- so, needless to say, I was excited to get my hands on this the day it was released. I began reading voraciously, and the opening chapters had all the hallmarks of Harris (almost to the point of being a bit clichéd): a weirdo bad guy with questionable personal hygiene habits (to say the least) with a penchant for showering and eating near the dead bodies he is in the process of disposing, a plucky heroine with a troubled past, insect symbolism, moments of rapid and brutal violence, some gross post-mortem discussions. Indeed, it began to feel all-too-familiar, almost as if Harris were going to the same well a little too often.
This wouldn’t have been so noticeable if the plot hadn’t fizzled about one-third of the way into the novel. Important characters are killed off or appear late in the book with very little development. Only the title character receives more than a cursory backstory. Not even the weirdo villain is fleshed out (pardon the pun). The pacing is quite off, with some subplots moving too rapidly and others taking far too long to unfold. The initial set-up -- breaking into Pablo Escobar’s safe -- feels like the opening act of something far more interesting to come later, but it just turns out to be the entirety of the novel’s plot. We are introduced to a detective about halfway through the novel, just for a few brief pages, only to have him disappear and then remerge at the end, but entirely without purpose.
This is a classic example of a novel either needing much more work to be expanded/improved upon, or to be cut down significantly into a more tightly-crafted novella. At its current state, it has too much that is undeveloped. Even so, it was brisk, fun read, even if it felt like the sketch of a narrative that could have been so much better. I found myself happy to be getting one more Harris novel, but forced to come to the conclusion that his best work was really just the Hannibal tetralogy -- and even then, only the first three were great.
This wouldn’t have been so noticeable if the plot hadn’t fizzled about one-third of the way into the novel. Important characters are killed off or appear late in the book with very little development. Only the title character receives more than a cursory backstory. Not even the weirdo villain is fleshed out (pardon the pun). The pacing is quite off, with some subplots moving too rapidly and others taking far too long to unfold. The initial set-up -- breaking into Pablo Escobar’s safe -- feels like the opening act of something far more interesting to come later, but it just turns out to be the entirety of the novel’s plot. We are introduced to a detective about halfway through the novel, just for a few brief pages, only to have him disappear and then remerge at the end, but entirely without purpose.
This is a classic example of a novel either needing much more work to be expanded/improved upon, or to be cut down significantly into a more tightly-crafted novella. At its current state, it has too much that is undeveloped. Even so, it was brisk, fun read, even if it felt like the sketch of a narrative that could have been so much better. I found myself happy to be getting one more Harris novel, but forced to come to the conclusion that his best work was really just the Hannibal tetralogy -- and even then, only the first three were great.
Doi bărbaţi discutând la miez de noapte. Se află la 1 664 de kilometri depărtare unul de celălalt. Jumătate din faţa fiecăruia este luminată de ecranul telefonului mobil. Sunt două jumătăţi de chip care discută pe întuneric.
— Pot să ajung la casa în care spui că este. Povesteşte-mi restul, Jesús.
Răspunsul se aude slab printre pârâituri parazitare.
— Mi-ai plătit un sfert din cât mi-ai promis. Puf-puf. Trimite-mi restul de bani. Trimite-mi-i!
Puf-puf.
— Jesús, dacă aflu ce vreau să aflu fără ajutorul tău, n-o să capeţi niciodată nimic de la mine.
— Asta e mai adevărat decât îţi dai seama. E cel mai adevărat lucru pe care l-ai rostit în viaţa ta. Puf-puf. Ce vrei tu stă pe cincizeci de kilograme de Semtex… dacă îl găseşti fără ajutorul meu, o să ajungi praf şi pulbere pe Lună.
— Jesús, braţul meu e lung.
— N-o să mă ajungă tocmai de pe Lună, Hans-Pedro.
— Mă cheamă Hans-Peter, şi ştii asta.
— Ţi-ai pune mâna pe cocoşel dacă ai avea braţul îndeajuns de lung? Asta voiai să spui? N-am nevoie de informaţii personale de la tine. Hai să nu mai pierdem vremea. Trimite-mi banii.
Legătura se întrerupe. Ambii bărbaţi rămân cu privirile îndreptate spre beznă.
Hans-Peter Schneider stă pe patul de la bordul vasului său lung, vopsit în negru, în largul coastei insulei Key Largo. Ascultă o femeie care suspină în cabina de la pupa. Imită suspinele ei. Se pricepe să imite. Din gura lui se aude vocea mamei lui, care strigă numele femeii care plânge:
— Karla. Karla. De ce plângi, copila mea dulce? A fost doar un vis.
— Pot să ajung la casa în care spui că este. Povesteşte-mi restul, Jesús.
Răspunsul se aude slab printre pârâituri parazitare.
— Mi-ai plătit un sfert din cât mi-ai promis. Puf-puf. Trimite-mi restul de bani. Trimite-mi-i!
Puf-puf.
— Jesús, dacă aflu ce vreau să aflu fără ajutorul tău, n-o să capeţi niciodată nimic de la mine.
— Asta e mai adevărat decât îţi dai seama. E cel mai adevărat lucru pe care l-ai rostit în viaţa ta. Puf-puf. Ce vrei tu stă pe cincizeci de kilograme de Semtex… dacă îl găseşti fără ajutorul meu, o să ajungi praf şi pulbere pe Lună.
— Jesús, braţul meu e lung.
— N-o să mă ajungă tocmai de pe Lună, Hans-Pedro.
— Mă cheamă Hans-Peter, şi ştii asta.
— Ţi-ai pune mâna pe cocoşel dacă ai avea braţul îndeajuns de lung? Asta voiai să spui? N-am nevoie de informaţii personale de la tine. Hai să nu mai pierdem vremea. Trimite-mi banii.
Legătura se întrerupe. Ambii bărbaţi rămân cu privirile îndreptate spre beznă.
Hans-Peter Schneider stă pe patul de la bordul vasului său lung, vopsit în negru, în largul coastei insulei Key Largo. Ascultă o femeie care suspină în cabina de la pupa. Imită suspinele ei. Se pricepe să imite. Din gura lui se aude vocea mamei lui, care strigă numele femeii care plânge:
— Karla. Karla. De ce plângi, copila mea dulce? A fost doar un vis.