A Down on Dan Brown.

I read the first four chapters of The Da Vinci Code tonight. So far, I’m even less impressed with the book than I was with the film.

Frankly, Dan Brown doesn’t strike me as being much of a writer. I think the kindest word I could use for his prose style would be ‘utilitarian.’ His use of pronouns is inconsistent and confused, he makes allusions which he then has to go on and explain – which is a sure sign of writing for the lowest common denominator – and his protagonist has the plastic qualities of a penny dreadful hero. He talks of the car travelling south and turning left to head west, and the whole thing is padded out with irrelevant detail. It’s hard going for somebody with a taste for the finer potential of language and the subtle nuances of communication. There's an irritating  gauchness and immaturity about it. Compared with the elegance of a Charlotte Bronte or the engaging idiosyncrasy of a Flann O’Brien, Dan Brown’s style has all the appeal of a piece of musty sackcloth you might find lying on the verge where somebody threw it out of a car window six months ago.

It’s obvious that he knows how to be a commercially successful author, however, which is maybe why he’s a professor of creative writing. Ironic, but there you are. And as Mrs Thatcher said: ‘There is no such thing as quality literature. There are books that sell and books that don’t.’

I will persevere as ever – just for the plot, you understand. I suppose one dimension is better than none.