Don’t make fun of renowned Dan Brown

China Daily (Hong Kong) - - CULTURE - By MICHAEL DEA­CON

Renowned au­thor Dan Brown woke up in his lux­u­ri­ous four-poster bed in his ex­pen­sive $10 mil­lion house — and im­me­di­ately he felt an­gry. Most peo­ple would have thought that the 48-year-old man had no rea­son to be an­gry. After all, the fa­mous writer had a new book com­ing out. But that was the prob­lem. A new book meant an in­evitable at­tack on the rich nov­el­ist by the wealthy word­smith’s fiercest foes. The crit­ics.

Renowned au­thor Dan Brown hated the crit­ics. Ever since he had be­come one of the world’s top renowned au­thors they had made fun of him. They had mocked best­selling book The Da Vinci Code, suc­cess­ful novel Dig­i­tal Fortress, pop­u­lar tome De­cep­tion Point, money-spin­ning vol­ume An­gels & Demons and chart-top­ping work of nar­ra­tive fic­tion The Lost Sym­bol.

The crit­ics said his writ­ing was clumsy, un­gram­mat­i­cal, repet­i­tive and repet­i­tive. They said it was full of un­nec­es­sary tau­tol­ogy. They said his prose was mired in a sea of mixed metaphors. For some rea­son they found some­thing funny in sen­tences such as “His eyes went white, like a shark about to at­tack.” They even say my books are packed with banal and su­per­flu­ous de­scrip­tion, thought the 5ft 9in man. He par­tic­u­larly hated it when they said his im­agery was non­sen­si­cal. It made his in­sect eyes flash like a rocket.

Renowned au­thor Dan Brown got out of his lux­u­ri­ous four-poster bed in his ex­pen­sive $10 mil­lion house and paced the bed­room, us­ing the feet lo­cated at the ends of his two legs to pro­pel him for­wards. He knew he shouldn’t care what a few jeal­ous crit­ics thought. His new book In­ferno was com­ing out on Tues­day, and the 480-page hard­back pub­lished by Dou­ble­day with a rec­om­mended US re­tail price of $29.95 was sure to be a hit. Wasn’t it?

I’ ll call my agent, pon­dered the pros­per­ous scribe. He reached for the tele­phone us­ing one of his two hands. “Hello, this is renowned au­thor Dan Brown,” spoke renowned au­thor Dan Brown. “I want to talk to lit­er­ary agent John Un­con­vinc­ing­name.”

“Mr Un­con­vinc­ing­name, it’s renowned au­thor Dan Brown,” told the voice at the other end of the line. In­stantly the voice at the other end of the line was re­placed by a dif­fer­ent voice at the other end of the line. “Hello, it’s lit­er­ary agent John Un­con­vinc­ing­name,” in­formed the new voice at the other end of the line.

“Hello agent John, it’s client Dan,” com­mented the pe­cu­nious scrib­bler. “I’m wor­ried about new book In­ferno. I think crit­ics are go­ing to say it’s badly writ­ten.”

The voice at the other end of the line gave a sigh, like a mighty oak top­pling into a great river, or some­thing else that didn’t sound like a sigh if you gave it a mo­ment’s thought. “Who cares what the stupid crit­ics say?” ad­vised the lit­er­ary agent. “They’re just snobs. You have mil­lions of fans.”

That’s true, mused the ac­com­plished com­poser of thrillers that com­bined re­li­gion, high cul­ture and con­spir­acy the­o­ries. His books were read by ev­ery­one from renowned politi­cian Pres­i­dent Obama to renowned mu­si­cian Brit­ney Spears.

“Think of all the money you’ve made,” rec­om­mended the lit­er­ary agent. That was true too. The thriv­ing ink-slinger’s wealth had al­lowed him to in­dulge his pas­sion for great art.

Renowned au­thor Dan Brown smiled, the ends of his mouth curv­ing up­wards in a phys­i­cal ex­pres­sion of plea­sure. He felt much bet­ter. If your books brought in­no­cent de­light to mil­lions of read­ers, what did it mat­ter whether you knew the dif­fer­ence be­tween a tran­si­tive and an in­tran­si­tive verb?

“Thanks, John,” he thanked. Then he put down the tele­phone and per­am­bu­lated on foot to the desk be­hind which he ha­bit­u­ally sat on a chair to write his fa­mous books on an Ap­ple iMac MD093B/A com­puter. New book In­ferno, the lat­est in his cel­e­brated se­ries about fic­tional Har­vard pro­fes­sor Robert Lang­don, was in­spired by top Ital­ian poet Dante.

The 190lb adult male hu­man be­ing nod­ded his head to in­di­cate sat­is­fac­tion and re­turned to his bed­room by walk­ing there. Still asleep in the lux­u­ri­ous four-poster bed of the ex­pen­sive $10 mil­lion house was beau­ti­ful wife Mrs Brown. Renowned au­thor Dan Brown gazed ad­mir­ingly at the pul­chri­tudi­nous brunette’s blonde tresses, flow­ing from her head like a stream but made from hair in­stead of wa­ter and without any fish in. She was as ma­jes­tic as the finest sculp­ture by Car­avag­gio or the most cov­eted por­trait by Rodin. I like the at­trac­tive woman, thought the suc­cess­ful man.

Per­haps one day, in­spired by beau­ti­ful wife Mrs Brown, he would move into ro­man­tic po­etry, like mar­ket-lead­ing Bri­tish rhymester John Keats. That would be good, opined the tal­ented per­son, and got back into the lux­u­ri­ous four-poster bed. He felt as happy as a man who has some­thing to be happy about and is suit­ably happy about it.

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