Meh. I just finished The Night Climbers (fun title, right?). It’s about a group of kids whose collegiate exploits are funded by the ringleader’s (Francis) father. It goes back in forth in time from the perspective of the newest member of the group (James). The token hot member of the group (Jessica) has just stopped by James’ law office after a 10 year separation under mysterious circumstances. Good enough to keep reading, right? But this is how it ended: Oh. That’s it?...huh. It’s like anticipating that last sip of bubbly only to be disappointed with a flat, warm sip. It’s like waiting in line to see an art exhibit you’ve heard was cool but when you get to the front of the line, instead of seeing the work itself, you see only a photograph of it (or going to a rock concert and waiting for the band but instead someone walks on stage and turns on a CD of the band. And the CD isn’t even a live version). It’s like sending in for a pair of x-ray glasses from the back of a comic book, but when they come in, instead of being able to see through things, it just turns everything fuzzy. And I’m mentioning all of these similies because the book itself was full of em’. Annoyingly so. Distractingly so. Oh, why do I get duped into these books with interesting enough premises that deliver so little?
And the part about night climbing? Surprisingly small.