I’m nearing the halfway point of The Poet (and this I am terribly ashamed to admit, seeing as I should have finished it this weekend). So here’s a little update:
I still get a little annoyed occasionally with how the main character’s hunches are inevitably right, and the bad guy (whom Connelly introduces after a couple chapters) inevitably thinks he’s smarter than he actually is.There’s also beginning to be a hint of the go get’em, scrappy reporter attitude creeping in (again, still punctuated by moments of cynicism). Fair enough, I suppose.
And a curious thing is happening: the book is starting to get to me. I’m not really one of those people who can watch scary movies and walk out making jokes about it, but then again, I always had trouble getting into the idea of horror in a novel. With nothing to jar you out of your seat, how can you really get so scared?
And as I was reading, I didn’t feel myself getting scared. Nor did I really notice any big change in my pulse. … But then, when I was ready to go upstairs to brush my teeth for bed, I suddenly realized that I was scared to. It was dark … and kind of intimidating … and I was nervous.
So yeah, the book got to me. Michael Connelly 1, Kate 0.