Loin swaddle blues

Regular readers, if there are any left, will have noticed that I've been more than a little slack when it comes to updating this blog. The truth is, I feel as if I'm repeating myself. I worked out many chapters ago that the original mystery that compelled me to start it (why such a bad writer is so successful) was just a red herring. In a post-literate society, people simply don't care. The paper-thin characterisation is neither here nor there. As long as the punters can identify with the putative hero, Langdon, everything's groovy. The fact that he has to be presented as the dimmest person ever to achieve tenure at an Ivy League institution is unfortunate, but if that's what you need to sell in the millions, so be it.

What I do admire, albeit grudgingly, is Brown's ability to give the illusion of speed and action, by slicing the plot into tiny fragments, and cramming in so many details that the reader's head spins. Were he a better writer, comparisons with Nicholson Baker might be in order. The fact that he's not, but sells far more than Baker ever will, is a sad reflection of the cultural marketplace, but hardly Brown's fault.

Anyway. I feel a bit sheepish that I haven't even made it to the halfway mark, but I think my job is pretty much done. Like Jade Goody at the London marathon, I didn't quite realise what an effort it would be.

Oh, and if you'll just allow me the luxury of a BIG PLOT SPOILER

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It's the Pyramid.