I only got 1/4 through this bad book (I hesitate to call it a novel, as there is nothing novel about it) before I reached this offensive chapter and could read no more. It goes like this:
"Sparkle Sykes, stepping quietly out of her closet and moving cautiously across the bedroom, followed the six-legged crawling thing that might have been a mutant baby born after a worldwide nuclear holocaust as imagined in the waking nightmares of an insect-phobic, fungi-phobic, rat-crazy mescaline junkie."
This string of pretty unnecessary comparisons is just a prelude to the real truth, revealed in the next sentence:
"It wasn’t a baby."
Impossible!
"she was half afraid it would turn to stare at her and its face would be so hideous that the sight of it would kill her or drive her mad."
How can she be half afraid when she thinks that she sheer stare of this creature can kill her or drive her insane? It's like feeling only a slight chill when you have a gun pointed at your head, which really doesn't happen - well, unless you're James Bond.
"On a Biedermeier chest of drawers stood an eighteen-inch-tall bronze statue of Diana, Roman goddess of the moon and the hunt. It weighed maybe fifteen pounds. Sparkle snared it by the neck and held it in both hands, an awkward but elegant club in case she needed one."
Right, because she might not need anything to defend herself. Maybe the creature just turned up to borrow some sugar? Who the hell knows.
"The grotesque intruder seemed not to have passed through the wall but into it. The wall wasn’t nearly thick enough to accommodate such a creature. In going through the wall, it seemed to have gone out of the Pendleton altogether, into some other reality or dimension."
Good thinking, Captain Obvious!
"Sparkle toured the room and peered in the adjacent bathroom, expecting to find some slouching beast out of a Bosch painting or risen from a Lovecraft story. All was as it should be."
Well, I don't think that anything is as it should be, since there was a scary creature touring the apartment just seconds ago, but then, what do I know...
"The girl was sitting in bed, propped up by a pile of pillows stacked against the headboard, reading a book. She did not react to her mother’s arrival. More often than not, behind the armor of her autism, she refused to recognize the presence of others by even so much as a glance."
If you pardon the pun, doesn't this paragraph seem to be a bit...autistic? It's completely devoid of any energy, movement, anything. I know that it describes a situation, but all I can see is a string of words at a page. And "armor of autism"? Armor is used for protection and has a positive connotation. Autism is limiting to the individual, trapping and forbidding from interaction. It's not an armor - it's a prison.
"Now the six-legged monstrous baby seemed like a nasty drug flashback, though she had never experienced a flashback before."
So how does she know what a flashback is like? Um...
Then we get a short tour of the character's past: we learn about her dad's death, that her mother has been killed by lightning of all possible things, that she was seduced by a drug addict and went through drug induced hell, and has a daughter with that dude, who of course is autistic and of course she's raising her alone. What? Don't like her yet? Well, maybe this will change your mind.
"Young Sparkle in her rubber-soled shoes, on the wet deck of the widow’s walk, orphaned now and traumatized, standing motionless in a state of shock, understood instantly that this world was a dark place and hard, that life was best for those who refused to be broken by it, that being happy required the strength and courage to refuse to be intimidated by anyone or anything. She wept but she did not sob. She stood there for a long time until the tears stopped flowing and the rain washed the salt from her face."
Yeah, doesn't this image try to tug the strings of your heart so very, very hard? Nine year old girl, not only orphaned but also traumatized, standing in the rain (why do such things never happen on a sunny day?), nevertheless not losing strenght! The only thing missing is Tiny Tim on his crutches in the background, shouting "God bless us, everyone!". Good writers manage to rouse emotions in their readers. Dean Koontz simply tells you how you should feel, again and again and again and again...
I didn't even finish this book, but from what I've read about it it gets even worse as it goes on. Currently, it has 131 one star reviews on Amazon and only 53 five star reviews. I'd mostly encourage people to not even pick it up to read, but to pick it up and throw it out of the window. If a writer wrote his first novel in 1968 and in 2012 writes crap like this, perhaps it's time to call it quits.
Okay, maybe I was unfair. I've got to be polite. I've got to be respectful. I will look at the next chapter. I am full of hope!
"After the Russian manicurist departed, Mickey Dime went into the study. The wood floor felt sexy under his bare feet. A lot of things felt sexy to Mickey. Nearly everything."
Ah, this doesn't start well...
"On the carpet, he stood squinching his toes in the deep wool pile. His feet were small and narrow. Well-formed. He was proud of his well-formed feet. His late mother had said that his feet looked like they were carved by the artist Michelangelo.
Mickey liked art. Art was sexy."
Aw, crap! Crap! Why did I do this? Well, at least I can't see much of dreadful authorial intrusion, where the authot tries to ridicule what he doesn't like by making a bad character take the position he doesn't agree with, specifically oversimplifying it to make those who disagree with him look as dumb as possible...
"Great art wasn’t about emotion. It was about sensation. Only the bourgeoisie, the tacky middle class, thought art should affect the better emotions and have meaning. If it touched your heart, it wasn’t art. It was kitsch. Art thrilled. Art spoke to the primitive, to the wild animal within. Art strummed deeper chords than mere emotions. If it made you think, it might be philosophy or science or something, but it wasn’t art. True art was about the meaninglessness of life, about the freedom of transgression, about power."
Aw, screw you, 77 Shadow Street. You're a terrible, terrible book, and it makes me sad that trees had to die to carry this awfulness in print. What a waste!