TODAY’S BREW: Sexy chocolate cherry coffee.
Twitter was all aflutter today with my irritated musings about reading The Wolf Gift by Anne Rice. Enough so that I realized it was madness not to do a post on it.
Though possibly not as mad as the fact that I will probably finish this book.
Find me a vampire novelist who isn’t an Anne Rice fan. I parted ways with her when she became too stretchy with the Vampire Chronicles, when it became repetitive and gratuitous. Then the Jesus thing happened, and I was totally out. When I spotted The Wolf Gift, I was so excited to see classic Anne Rice back.
It is becoming apparent that what is classic is sometimes just dated. This is no exception, though it was only published last year.
The premise of the novel is pretty cool! (SPOILER ALERT) A priveleged young reporter becomes a werewolf, and can smell evildoers, and wants to kill the hell out of them. He maintains his human consciousness the entire time. When the transition occurs, Reuben welcomes it every time; it’s an orgasmic experience and he loves the power it gives him.
But long, long descriptions slow down the pace of what should be a very intense novel, making it just dull to read. That’s all there is to it, just dull. Well written primal scenes of slaughter and transformation are far too infrequent, and even these lack fast paced writing. It all feels too steady, not like a man teetering on the brink of a new reality. If the old lady in Titanic were telling the story it would be more enthusiastic.
Reuben has three different lovers in the first 200 pages. Fun, yes? NO. His fiance is cold, dull, and absent. The older woman whom he has a one night stand with dies immediately, but he, of course, is crazy in love with her from the get-go. Until he finds a middle aged weirdo in the woods, Laura, who he should be having explosive werewolf sex with. Instead we are faced with sentences that dilute phrases like “naked and pink against him” with the nightmare of “her nipples like petals.”
How the fuck are nipples like petals?
TWO pages of describing the house in the sex scene. Really? Then, the morning after, when there should be interaction and a bit of freakout, he is immersed in thought about the wraparound porch that he isn’t even looking at or sitting on. What the holy shit? I mean, you lost me at flower nipples, but I ran screaming with descriptions of tables when we should be talking about screwing.
We hear as much from the caretaker about the maintenance on this huge old house as we do from Reuben’s family, and trust me, that’s too much. What is this, the frigging Shining? Your house issues have no relevance here.
I am halfway through this sad state of affairs, and will finish it, it seems. Anne Rice is a classic, but she is also OLD and I am sick and tired of all her lies. Well, maybe just her description of lies and houses and streets and weather and hair and bullshit that doesn’t matter. The end.