Damn it Butcher! I hate your books that always end at the point when I most want them to go on! I was even careful to savor this one. I stretched it out over almost two weeks, and that is essentially impossible to do. I worked at it. I kept the end at bay, and I cherished each moment, but somehow, that wasn’t enough to create an eternal novel.
See, that’s the tragedy of the human condition. No one wants to be corrupted by power when they set out to get it. They have good, even noble reasons for doing whatever it is they do. They don’t want to misuse it, they don’t want to abuse it, and they don’t want to become vicious monsters. Good people, decent people, set out to take the high road, to pick up power without letting it change them or push them away from their ideals. But it keeps happening anyway. (p 20)
You may not have started out with the intention of being a monster, but your power has grown too great, man, and that is precisely what’s happened. You luxuriate, now, in our desperate hope for new pages; our desire is the warm bed in which you sleep. Cold Days, indeed.
Maybe this was a male-female translation problem. I read an article once that said that when women have a conversation, they’re communicating on five levels. They follow the conversation that they’re actually having, the conversation that is specifically being avoided, the tone being applied to the overt conversation, the buried conversation that is being covered only in subtext, and finally the other person’s body language.
That is, on many levels, astounding to me. I mean, that’s like having a freaking superpower. When I, and most other people with a Y chromosome, have a conversation, we’re having a conversation. Singular. We’re paying attention to what is being said, considering that, and replying to it. All these other conversations that have apparently been going on for the last several thousand years? I didn’t even know that they existed until I read that stupid article, and I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one.
I felt somewhat skeptical about the article’s grounding. There were probably a lot of women who didn’t communicate on multiple wavelengths at once. There were probably men who could handle that many just fine. I just wasn’t one of them. (p 347)
Is that the problem, Butcher? Are we just having a translation problem here? Because I’m pretty sure I could find a male fan to help translate. “More, now” is what I would boil this down to for you. I would take my five conversations and condense them into two easily digestable words. I know you have plans for about six to nine more books, and god bless you for that, but patience is not one of my virtues. I.do.not.like.to.wait.
The problem is, Harry Dresden is the kind of character a girl gets addicted to. He’s a smart ass, fumbling, brilliant idiot, and if there’s one thing I love, it’s smart ass, fumbling, brilliant idiots. Especially in my pleasure reading. And when a smart ass, fumbling, brilliant idiot is combined with amazing, snarky friends, and villains who are in equal part lovable and loathable, magic is inevitable.
So please, sir, I beg you – nose to the grindstone – adoring fans await.
For more on the fiendish puppet master behind The Dresden Files, look here.