Reviewing this book gives me a distinctly silly and idiotic feeling, because I know that this book ranks only a few spots above chick lit on the “Annoyingly Superior Quality Scale of Real Literature” (that I made up just now). Anyone seeing my rating of Dan Brown’s work will immediately leap to the conclusion that the rest of the books I’ve read are just as poorly written/reviewed/researched/organized, and that my opinion is not worth listening to.
In short, I am perfectly aware of how this rating makes me look. And I am aware of the many, many problems with the book that ensured Dan Brown could spend the rest of his life rolling around naked in a pile of dollar bills. The “research” is poorly done, almost all of the earthshattering claims made in the story are exaggerated bullshit, the characters are mostly undeveloped and unrealstic, Robert Langdon is clearly Dan Brown in a flimsy fan fiction-worthy disguise, and even the minor details in the story are…well, totally made up. Despite what Professor Langdon says, I don’t think Disney’s The Little Mermaid is a thinly veiled Mary Magdalene allegory, you cannot simply lift a painting off a wall in the Louvre and use it as a shield, there are only twelve disciples in The Last Supper, and the Louvre does not have bars of soap in the bathrooms that one can push a tracer into and then toss out the window.
Dan Brown is a silly, silly man who would like nothing more than to be the Indiana Jones of the literary world (bitch, please) and his books deserve all the derision and terrible movie adaptations they’ve received so far.
But the fact remains that I fucking devoured this book in twenty-four hours, and the experience was sort of awesome.
It is for this reason that I gave this book four stars, which means I really liked it. Because I did. At least for a little while.
Verdict: four out of five stars