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You know what annoys me? It's when the narrator of a story takes time out to address the reader and in this book that's especially annoying because the narrator, a pompous English novelist, Wilkie Collins, friend of Charles Dickens, Opium addict, and overall scumbag spends his time addressing the reader with speculations as to what the reader's world will be like 125 years to the narrator's future.
The rest of the story is well-researched, competent, and even eerily creepy in the appropriate places. But I just can't put this book among the better volumes that Dan Simmons has written. He hit a home-run in his ultimate Victorian Ice-bound horror story, The Terror, which was gripping and heart-wrenching. But in The Terror I cared about the characters. What happened to them mattered and not just in the "he got what he deserved" way, but in a humans caring about other humans way.
In Drood I just didn't care. If Dickens died, so what. If Collins died, good riddance. If Drood croaked, then so be it.
I can't mark it down to one or two stars because it is really well written and has a gripping plot. But for me to really like a book, it's got to have characters I care about.
The rest of the story is well-researched, competent, and even eerily creepy in the appropriate places. But I just can't put this book among the better volumes that Dan Simmons has written. He hit a home-run in his ultimate Victorian Ice-bound horror story, The Terror, which was gripping and heart-wrenching. But in The Terror I cared about the characters. What happened to them mattered and not just in the "he got what he deserved" way, but in a humans caring about other humans way.
In Drood I just didn't care. If Dickens died, so what. If Collins died, good riddance. If Drood croaked, then so be it.
I can't mark it down to one or two stars because it is really well written and has a gripping plot. But for me to really like a book, it's got to have characters I care about.