WHEN Dan Brown’s Da Vinci Code became one of the most widely read novels in recent years, it is clear that millions of readers have become riveted with Mr Brown’s knowledge of spiritual truths wrapped in fabrics of fantasy.
This is where my problem lies. Mr Brown’s fantastic fiction writing is simply terrible. In one singular tome, he sets forth mind-blowing conspiracy theories with relentless passion because a third installment of protagonist Robert Langdon’s encounters, adventures, and idiosyncrasies cannot wait. And he begs for understanding. Fast. Witness how we learn what we can about the grandeur of phi, amongst others, because we need to understand—fast— that phi is as hunky and brainy as Langdon is.
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