A reviewer below compares Grossmans debut novel to Philp K Dick and, slightly patronisingly, implies that those reviewers who don't like it really don't understand it.
Nonsense. Grossman is no Dick. His books always meant something. This book means nothing. It's a slightly better written riff on Dan Brown, with Grossman throwing everything including the kitchen sink at the plot and then entirely running out of steam. He didn't know how to finish it so he didn't bother, leaving the reader entirely in the lurch.
Or perhaps somewhere on an old laptop in his house are the other 300 pages he forgot to send to the publishers. That would be nice and perhaps make up for the wasted hours I spent on this pile of nonsense.
His Magicians books, while still derivative and ultimately unsatisfying, are much better.
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