So today’s the day. Sense and Sensibility and Sea-Monsters hits the shelves.

Oh, and there’s that other one as well. And for those who are ecstatically celebrating the release of a new Dan Brown, I would suggest that, today, there are other blogs which may cause less offence.

I was recently talking to a friend who doesn’t habitually read. In fact she didn’t believe that she had read a book in over a year. But, she added to my not insignificant gratification, her last book had been recommended by none other than myself. Naturally I was curious, but incredulous and disappointed to learn that the book in question was, horrifyingly, Brown’s Angels and Demons.

Next time I am called upon to recommend a book I will endeavour to take the responsibility more seriously…

Last week on twitter, in the wake of Stephen Fry’s highly successful endorsement of Sum with a well placed tweet, an attempt, similar in method if not intent, was afoot to raise the profile of Dan Brown. In a pejorative sense, obviously. For the purposes of twitter, Brown is henceforth known as #danwho? The first, colourful, incarnation of his twitter hashtag I will leave to the imagination.

As the first gleeful glow of shadenfreude evaporated, I began to feel guilty about my part in lampooning unfortunate Dan. So I’m going to take my pot shot in a more reasoned fashion instead:

I read the Da Vinci Code back in the day, and am not prepared to write it off completely. It is not a terribly popular point of view, but I do believe that a book which is going to get someone, who would not otherwise do so, to read a book, does have some intrinsic value.

That said, although I found the novel readable, even to the extent of being eager to pursue the plot, there are some terrible problems with the book and the ethos which surrounds it.

Firstly, it is a work of fiction, and it seems mischevious and unhelpful to suggest otherwise. The author should decide whether he is writing fact or fiction, and then stick to his story. To do otherwise strikes me as disingenuous. Having said that, the outcry by some sections of the christian community was foolish and ill-judged. I remember once visiting a church where the priest preached passionately against reading the book. A secure faith is not shaken by rumour and hearsay, and should not concern itself with such matters.

Secondly, even an insistent plot could not disguise Brown’s glaringly bad writing. Pursuing the plot in the manner of a rat up a drainpipe, and bang! Meaningless metaphor. Plot derailed in hunt to unravel the mystery of the metaphor. But there never was mystery. Just meaninglessness.

Normally I would back this up with examples, but as I flicked through the pages yesterday, I realised I can’t read this book again.

As a salutary lesson in how not to write I paraphrased a short chapter of six pages for the benefit of my daughters. It went something like this:

“[...] Sophie looked uncertain. [...] Sophie already looked troubled. [...] Sophie looked over. [...] Sopie looked confused. [...] Sophie looked uneasy. [...] Sophie looked sceptical.[...]“

It’s one way to break up an exposition… and a great advert for the power of the thesauraus. To be fair, when I read this to the kids (inserting copious amounts of ‘blah de blah de blah,’) it did provoke a strong reaction; there was actual laughing, not to mention honest to goodness rolling around on the floor.

And so. I willl not be rushing out to buy The Symbol. But I admit that I am tempted, if only to sit and marvel at Brown’s unmatchable mastery of metaphorical mediocrity.