I read now only about one novel a month. When I read a novel it is like going to the cinema and watching a good film. I feel cheated sometimes leaving the cinema when the film was said to be great, and it is lacklustre.
I feel the same way about this last book I read of John Connollys. Normally I expect more from him having read some of his previous novels. The story is not in the least bit gripping, the characters fairly obvious for the genre, dull really. I don’t recommend anyone who expects his usual high calibre of writing read this.
Now back to work on the new Prague Travel Guide site after my few days off.
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