Incongruous
11-06-2008, 04:33
Well, I am not sure where this damp and sad little tale of achievement and squander should go, here or the monestary. But I felt that it would get a proper airing by the wonderful fellows of the Frontroom!
Two days ago on tuesday I went into Borders as is my custom on tuesday, it being my first pay-day of the week, to flirt with the new books recently arrived on the shelves before wandering up to university.
It is usually a pleasant yet uneventful occassion flippingh tthrough the pages of a plain yet pleasing paperback novel written by some casual author. However, this tuesday I was in for a surprise. I had heard a little something, that Bernard Cornwell had written what may have been his greatest ever work, Azincourt!
There it was, all shiny and brand spanking new, a nice tidy cover and thick mass of paper between, I was literally buzzing with excitement in my sad little head. I picked it up, felt its weight in my hand and decided that this was indeed a substantial work, I was so overcome that I marched straight up to the counter and baught the damned thing without a second's thought. More fool me, so it would turn out.
I began reading it while riding up the cable car, tearing it from the confines of the brown paper bag so thoughtfully provided by the handsome looking Goth (girl) at the counter, and only at the expense of a small coin!
I threw myself at the book disregarding any complaints the passangers might have had at such a violent movement, for the sake of a bloody Hell, this is the new Bernard Cornwell book! I was taken away the by the prologue's intimacy and its in depth characters, something which Mr. Cornwell has always seemed to be lacking, but here was a granb improvement, shorely a sign of better things to come.
But the the first chapter struck me, no, in fact I struck it, my enthusiasm had propelled me to speeds far beyond the book's capabilities, my mind had been wandering and surging. It was like being slapped by a brick wall, steady and stern and utterly lacking in inovation and interest.
It fealt like I had been returned to the bad old days of Cornwell's second and third Grail Quest installments, or perhaps his rather tired attempts in The Last Kingdom, The Pale Horsmen or Lord's of the North. I was hoping for a spectacle to build upon the previous years good attempt in Sword Song. Alas, I am drowned by what I call the Cornwell factor or perhaps it is a formula?
Poor and shallow characters, may be acceptable in a romping Sharpe novel, but not in a stand alone epic of a book like Azincourt was touted to be. I found it hard to like any of the characters, and laughed at the name of the hero, Nick Hook, a poor attempt Mr. Cornwell, very poor. The book was made up, overwhelmingly, of long dry periods of nothing at all and poor descriptive language plus a few confused battle scenes which still managed to impress me.
I was also annoyed by the newfound obsession Cornwell has with tedious overly heroic descriptions of his hero, "he was an archer, he could use the yew war bow, he could kill a man at a hundred yards without looking he could light a fire with his eyeballs, he was tall, he was dark, screw it this guy was frikin Chuck Norris on crack!".
"He was a Dane that day, a sword Dane, come to kill his enemies and send their souls to the corpse hall, he was too fast, he was too strong, he danced through th enemy shield wall he was Uthred, he was juist the frikin man!"
"She was raven haired gray eyed, dark skinned and skinny"
Now I realise that Cornwell did not write that (well he did write that last one), but it conveys well the general gist of his writing these days, heavy handed and lazy.
When I look back lovingly at Sharpe's Tiger, Sharpe's Rifles, Sharpe's Eagle and even Harlequin I grimace at Azincourt and The Last Kingdom Series a I raise an eyebrow at Bernard Cornwell's talent as a writer.
Have we indeed, witnessed the sad demise of my favourite novelist?
And why has Cornwell lost his mojo?
I needed to type that:whip:
Two days ago on tuesday I went into Borders as is my custom on tuesday, it being my first pay-day of the week, to flirt with the new books recently arrived on the shelves before wandering up to university.
It is usually a pleasant yet uneventful occassion flippingh tthrough the pages of a plain yet pleasing paperback novel written by some casual author. However, this tuesday I was in for a surprise. I had heard a little something, that Bernard Cornwell had written what may have been his greatest ever work, Azincourt!
There it was, all shiny and brand spanking new, a nice tidy cover and thick mass of paper between, I was literally buzzing with excitement in my sad little head. I picked it up, felt its weight in my hand and decided that this was indeed a substantial work, I was so overcome that I marched straight up to the counter and baught the damned thing without a second's thought. More fool me, so it would turn out.
I began reading it while riding up the cable car, tearing it from the confines of the brown paper bag so thoughtfully provided by the handsome looking Goth (girl) at the counter, and only at the expense of a small coin!
I threw myself at the book disregarding any complaints the passangers might have had at such a violent movement, for the sake of a bloody Hell, this is the new Bernard Cornwell book! I was taken away the by the prologue's intimacy and its in depth characters, something which Mr. Cornwell has always seemed to be lacking, but here was a granb improvement, shorely a sign of better things to come.
But the the first chapter struck me, no, in fact I struck it, my enthusiasm had propelled me to speeds far beyond the book's capabilities, my mind had been wandering and surging. It was like being slapped by a brick wall, steady and stern and utterly lacking in inovation and interest.
It fealt like I had been returned to the bad old days of Cornwell's second and third Grail Quest installments, or perhaps his rather tired attempts in The Last Kingdom, The Pale Horsmen or Lord's of the North. I was hoping for a spectacle to build upon the previous years good attempt in Sword Song. Alas, I am drowned by what I call the Cornwell factor or perhaps it is a formula?
Poor and shallow characters, may be acceptable in a romping Sharpe novel, but not in a stand alone epic of a book like Azincourt was touted to be. I found it hard to like any of the characters, and laughed at the name of the hero, Nick Hook, a poor attempt Mr. Cornwell, very poor. The book was made up, overwhelmingly, of long dry periods of nothing at all and poor descriptive language plus a few confused battle scenes which still managed to impress me.
I was also annoyed by the newfound obsession Cornwell has with tedious overly heroic descriptions of his hero, "he was an archer, he could use the yew war bow, he could kill a man at a hundred yards without looking he could light a fire with his eyeballs, he was tall, he was dark, screw it this guy was frikin Chuck Norris on crack!".
"He was a Dane that day, a sword Dane, come to kill his enemies and send their souls to the corpse hall, he was too fast, he was too strong, he danced through th enemy shield wall he was Uthred, he was juist the frikin man!"
"She was raven haired gray eyed, dark skinned and skinny"
Now I realise that Cornwell did not write that (well he did write that last one), but it conveys well the general gist of his writing these days, heavy handed and lazy.
When I look back lovingly at Sharpe's Tiger, Sharpe's Rifles, Sharpe's Eagle and even Harlequin I grimace at Azincourt and The Last Kingdom Series a I raise an eyebrow at Bernard Cornwell's talent as a writer.
Have we indeed, witnessed the sad demise of my favourite novelist?
And why has Cornwell lost his mojo?
I needed to type that:whip: