Now see here, you stupid old prick. I think I’ve read enough James Herbert to have a valid opinion about him. As I sip this wine and battle the demons in my head that insist on believing my girlfriend is an enemy, I wrack my brain regarding this book and its required review. Like shit, it’s the same as all James Herbert’s trite but readable junk. The Dark is basically a better version of The Fog. Same fucking thing. An "metaphysical" substance renders people violently insane. Interspersed amongst a boring narrative of cliched, oh-so-perfect heroes is an intricate montage of horrible violence, all of which varies in enjoyment for the discerning horror connoisseur.
Much as I generally deride his work these days, I will never say Herbert can’t write. He knows how to make pretty sentences. Were this not so adequately written, I would have hated it. And at first I was struck by how enjoyable this story was. Predictable, recycled and devoid of innovation - but short of Fluke, that seems to be a staple of Herbert’s work. Still the narrative is engaging enough, much like a dumb but entertaining blockbuster movie. It does not take long, however, before you start to tire from the boring direction you know it is going to take.
There honestly were not many surprises in this book. The only things that surprised me were its unnecessary length - (his books are generally short) - and the lack of sex. These “surprises” win little credence with me. The violence was serviceable, rarely shocking though. There was one part that was disgustingly potent and darkly comical. A butcher hacks his wife up and then serves her to his customers. Kudos for that, James, you sick fuck. But otherwise this was forgettable and repetitive. Very occasionally it was scary … I guess. But fucking that’s not enough. James Herbert was heralded by many as Britain’s answer to Stephen King. This book has not changed my position on this statement that that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard”.
In short The Dark is a passable book. But its quality does not justify its length. The heroes are lame and boringly perfect, like almost all of Herbert’s heroes. They suffer what I call “down-to-earth syndrome”. There were some moments of enjoyment. I loved how much bullshit Jacob Kulek went through. Poor old bastard spends the whole dammed novel getting strangled, thrown out windows and hurt in multiple other funny ways. This was better than the last Herbert book I read - The Secret of Crickley Hall - but it was not as good as his best stuff. It sits comfortably in the middle of his repertoire. And I hate to say that average Herbert is nothing too wonderful anyway. Look elsewhere if you want to give him a try.