I wish I was smarter so I could read books with cool covers like this.
But I guess I’m not.
I really, really tried. I couldn’t. To my tight little mind, it sucked. I read and I read, thinking surely that something that’s being hailed as an instant masterpiece would somehow, somewhere get a little bit better. Or maybe even, gosh, readable.
It didn’t and I finally caved after about a hundred pages.
I’d wanted to walk through airports carrying my Umberto Eco, looking smugly like I was somebody who knew something. Like maybe I could leave Lee Childs and Stephen King and Chuck Palahniuk behind and be a differently more intellectual somebody.
But I couldn’t.
I still like the cover, though.
Maybe I’ll just wrap The Prague Cemetery dust jacket around another book and when a smooth somebody asks me how I find Umberto Eco, I’ll smootly say-