I picked up this book in the library purely because of the title. There are certain book titles which, upon seeing, compel me to pick up the book and read it, no matter the content, and "Death Comes for the Archbishop" was one of them. I was expecting to read a dark, gothic novel with deep, philosophical discussions about the nature of good and evil, perhaps with Death and the Archbishop sitting down to a game of chess or something. Instead what do I get? Some thinly veiled Christian dogma set in an "Oh, California" textbook.
But here's the strange part... I actually LIKED this book. For no tangible reason, I couldn't put it down. Now, to reiterate, this was what I would have considered, by any normal standards, to be an extremely stupid, boring book. There is no plot, to speak of. There are pages and pages, entire chapters almost, devoted solely to describing how peaceful and beautiful the arid New Mexican landscape is. And although it spans almost fifty years, it moves at the pace of a lone French missionary jorneying through the desert. But despite all this, I found myself liking it more intensely than almost any other book I've ever read. I found myself caught up in its slow, quiet, undulating rhythm. In fact, towards the end, I practically had tears in my eyes from the beauty of it all.
I would have given it a ten, if I didn't find this whole thing so damn unsettling.