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by James Ellroy
In a word (or two or three): ellroy's prose is getting tiresome
From Mr. Hipster:
Wayne Tedrow Jr., a young Vegas cop, arrives
with a loathsome job to do. He's got $6,000 in cash and no idea that
he is about to plunge into the cover-up conspiracy already brewing
around Kennedy's assassination, no idea that this will mark the beginning
of a hellish five-year ride through the private underbelly of public
policy. I'm assuming Ellroy's editor was afraid to say anything to
him, lest he be dragged behind James' car or garroted with a length
of piano wire. This is the only plausible explanation behind this
repetitive, bloated piece of drek. There were times during my read
that I swear I must have lost my place and read the same thing twice.
No such luck. Ellroy repeats words and themes. He repeats dialogue
and plot devices that didn't work the first time you read them--five
times ago. We get it: he dipped "slooooow" and went "deeeeep."
There are only so many times a character can "brace" something/someone
and I swear one character had all his teeth knocked out of his head
at least three times. My God, make it stop. Everyone is addicted to
drugs. Everyone is addicted to sex. Everyone is for sale and has absolutely
no allegiance to anyone. I wanted to put this book down, but I have
this damn OCD thing where I have to finish books. Don't waste
your time reading this 670 pg./ 122 chapter behemoth--get a tan, ride
a bike, watch paint dry...
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