I hated this book. I'll just put that out there. I hated this book. The only reason I finished it was because my husband and I were reading it together and he would've been disappointed if I'd just quit, after he read the whole thing. But I wanted to quit. And almost every word of this book was work, read with a McKayla Moroney scowl on my face. I hated this book.

But I didn't want to.

I didn’t like The Passage, first book of this trilogy, per se, but it had definitely stayed on my mind in the three years between reading it and the publication of The Twelve. I was intrigued to see where Cronin was going with it all, and I wanted to see if/how he would recoup or redeem the more puzzling and/or problematic bits of The Passage.

Short answer: he wouldn't, he didn't, and he was really only going to make everything much, much worse.

Long version, with many, many spoilers. )

A lot of these things were present to a smaller or greater extent in The Passage, but it straddled an uneasy line where you hope—and give the author the opportunity—to improve and prove you wrong. But, sadly, Cronin failed that test on all fronts and lost the thin thread of interest and unpredictability that made The Passage at least readable. The Twelve was long, it was boring, it was increasingly ludicrous and predictable. And though there are still many unanswered questions that, presumably/hopefully will be answered in the trilogy's final volume, I find I don't care about the answers any more and the price paid—out of pocket, in time and effort and energy—are not worth the pain and aggravation I felt through the entire ordeal of reading this book.

I really hated this book.



November 2012

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