[Forlong the Fat]

I realize I'm resurrecting an old thread here, but I just came across this and I feel compelled to comment on how truly horrible this book is. And I don't mean the concept--that is completely ill-conceived in my opinion, though I found it interesting enough to try the book out. No, I'm talking about truly execrable style and execution. Let's walk through the first paragraph. Aside from the fact that it conveys the incredibly trite idea that sunsets and sunrises are really nice, I noticed the following problems:

Is there a sight more beautiful than a desert sunset, when the sun, as if ashamed of its whitish daytime fierceness [this is an ill-turned phrase, and I'm not at all sure why the sun would be "ashamed"--just some pointless anthropomorphism it seems, but certainly not the worst thing here], lavishes a bounty of unimaginably tender and pure colors on its guests[in what sense are we the sun's "guests"? again this just seems to be nonsense]? Especially good are countless shades of purple, which turn dunes into a charmed sea– don’t miss those couple of minutes, they will never happen that way again…[where to begin? are sunsets really purple--seems to me they're pink and orange. more importantly, why will these minutes "never happen again"? seems like they happen every time the sun sets] Or the last moment before sunrise, when the first light of dawn interrupts in mid-movement the staid minuet of moon shadows on the lacquered hardtops [again, where to start? how do moon shadows dance a minuet in the desert? the shadows presumably don't move except for the incredibly gradual movement of the moon itself--hardly like a dance. and what is staid about the supposed dance? and what, in the name of heaven, are the lacquered hardtops?]– for those dances are forever hidden from the uninitiated, those who prefer day to night... Or the never-ending tragedy of the hour [how is an hour a "never-ending tragedy?"] when the power of darkness begins to wane and the fuzzy clusters of the evening constellations suddenly turn into prickly icy crumbs,[when does the "power of darkness" wane? certainly not at midnight as seems to be suggested by the following sentence. and has anyone ever seen any phenomenon that turns the constellations from "fuzzy clusters" to "prickly icy crumbs"? why were they "fuzzy" and what made them "prickly" in short, what in the world could this even be describing? and in what way can stars be described is "prickly," a tactile descriptor? crumbs, of course, is just a wholly inappropriate word to describe stars.] which by morning will rime the bronzed gravel of the hamada[I admit that I had to look up "rime" and "hamada" and this part still doesn't make any sense to me. in particular, what is the "which" that will "rime the bronzed gravel"? presumably that would be the sun (hence the "bronzed") but the sun does not appear as a subject in the sentence]?

It was at such a midnight hour that[this, to me, is insult to injury. after reading all that tripe about sunrise and sunset, we find out that the story begins at midnight. the opening drivel is pure masturbation]

I made it through about 25 more pages, but I won't make it any further. Some of my favorite outrages against style and logic:

The orc is described as fighting as "meticulously" as he used to build things. How can someone fight "meticulously"? Does he stab everyone twice? There may be some meticulous fighters from time to time, but I would imagine they'd be quickly killed by less meticulous fighters.

It is said that the Gondorian and Mordorian fighters used to always complement each other on a leader's birthday or similar event before running each other through. How do you suppose that would work. You get the upper hand, stop fighting, pay a complement, and then stab someone?

In a similar vein, in the middle of the battle of the Pelennor, Eomer has all of his men get off their horses so he can talk to them (I imagine them all "taking a knee" like kids at a soccer game) and tells them a crude version of the Muslim view of "virgins in heaven." How does the author imagine they could do that in the middle of a battle? Wouldn't the enemy probably attack then? Or perhaps the Mordorians are just so honorable they would wait until the riders get back on their horses and charge.

These last two points illustrate what I think is one of several deeper problems (quite apart from the horrific style) with the story. This author seems to think he's somehow written a more realistic story--for example, his story takes proper consideration of plate tectonics. But there are innumerable examples (like stopping for a chat in the middle of battle) of actions that make no sense in terms of the way human beings actually act.

In short, this author may be an accomplished scientist, but he has not the first clue how to write, or how to develop a cogent, plausible story.