A James Patterson book is a perfect read if you want to watch a basketball game or golf tournament on television or if you want to sit on the beach and watch the inevitable parade of humanity and not be distracted by the thought process required to read a major literary effort. That is to say, the type is big and there is considerable white space on the page. I remember years ago when learning a bit about designing advertising copy that text should be minimal, written at a fairly low grade level, and provide copious amounts of white space.
This fits Patterson to a T. The Fifth Horseman, written with Maxine Paetro, is 409 pages with 139 chapters, just under 3 pages per chapter, shorter chapters even than his previous novel, Mary, Mary. This is Jack Webb's "Just the facts, ma'am" taken to an extreme. The style is sparse with character adequately drawn, but hardly in the round. Patterson has learned the writing-publishing game and he is a winner. He is a highly prolific writer and wildly popular. At the very least, considering his sales figures, he is bringing a lot of readers to the table. As a former teacher of what passed for literature in the schools, I believe that is always a good thing.
But, I wonder, how much is he really writing anymore? His books written with someone seem so formulaic, so predictable, so devoid of his best efforts. Maxine Paetro coauthored his 4th of July, which is the only writing credit she gets. However, she is best known for How to Put Your Book Together and Get a Job in Advertising, 21st Century Ed., now in its fourth edition. She is equally well-known for her home, Broccoli Hall, and its expansive gardens, which she opens to the public in June of each year. She has written a number of novels on her own, so I wonder just how much of this is hers or his. There is certainly a long-standing tradition in the arts of the master placing the last dab of paint onto the canvas, signing his name, and claiming credit when the real work has been done by the apprentices. I just wonder...
The plot, which hinges on the mysterious deaths of seemingly healthy patients in a leading San Francisco hospital, offers the reader a number of potential murderers. Or, maybe, according to a lawsuit defended by the hospital, the deaths are nothing more than tragic mistakes common to any busy hospital with an overworked and overextended staff. Except for one issue, which I cannot reveal because it is so central, all the plot elements are resolved in an appropriate and reasonably timely manner. Then, in a 2 ½ page epilogue, "Unfinished Business," that last issue is resolved, not in San Francisco but in a city completely across the country. No way! This is Deus ex machina with the wheels off the machine! The means do not justify the end.
Despite those caveats, I found that I enjoyed the book, except for the most unsatisfying ending. I was able to lose myself in the story and ignore the world's parade or not, as I chose. The short chapters do create a certain rhythm and pace to the telling. I found that I wanted to read just one more chapter - after all, each chapter was so short it would only take a moment. It was a dizzying path.
Despite those caveats, I found that I enjoyed the book, except for the most unsatisfying ending. I was able to lose myself in the story and ignore the world's parade or not, as I chose. The short chapters do create a certain rhythm and pace to the telling. I found that I wanted to read just one more chapter - after all, each chapter was so short it would only take a moment. It was a dizzying path.
