I haven't been for years, not since I read The Witching Hour in the summer of 1993. It's 1,043 pages long and it doesn't end. The ending is a lead up to some crappy book that follows it. Leaving aside my firm belief that all books (or movies) in a series should be able to stand up on their own and not suck, I still had major problems with it. This book was one of the first that inspired me to throw it across the room when I finished it. Thankfully it didn't hit anyone. (Unlike the time Heather Church hit me in the face with a For Better or For Worse collection in the summer after 7th grade. I still have a scar, you know. But that's another story.) Anyway, I vowed then to never read another Anne Rice book. And, I haven't.
So, given my dislike of her and her rambling writing style (which, according to people who have actually read her work in the last 11 years, has gotten much worse), you can imagine how delighted I was to stumble across this, and then this, today.
Anne Rice has gone crazy! How delightful! She hates people who hate her books! I love that!
This may be my favourite bit:
For me, three hunting scenes, two which take place in hotels -- the lone woman waiting for the hit man, the slaughter at the pimp's party -- and the late night foray into the slums --stand with any similar scenes in all of the chronicles. They can be read aloud without a single hitch. Every word is in perfect place. The short chapter in which Lestat describes his love for Rowan Mayfair was for me a totally realized poem. There are other such scenes in this book.Arrogant much, Anne?
Ah, the public downfall of disliked celebrities. Could anything be more fun?