I have climbed the Purple Prose Mountains. There were many stumbles along the way, and the path was often obscured by wordy brambles. Bruised and bloodied, I persevered and emerged at last onto the Plains of Youdidthistoyourself by the banks of the Crymea River.
Ye gods, I’m exhausted.
The rating reflects my enjoyment of the book, which reached a series low directly proportionate to the increase in filler. And there is So. Much. Filler. One thing I didn’t actually hate was the ending. I know lots of readers were pissed off by it, and I find that hilarious since the way things were going to go was literally laid out in book one. Personally, I was pleased that Paolini didn’t give in to his copying-David-Eddings instincts and end with as many characters as possible pairing up and getting married.
He did give in to some of his baser instincts, though, like when he had Angela knitting a hat that says in part “Raxacori—” on it. Raxacoricofallapatorius. Because why not rip me out of the story again with another Doctor Who reference. (Actually, Angela would almost make sense as a Time Lady, but then Paolini would owe royalties to whoever owns that copyright too.)
I’m glad I’ve ticked this series off my 2019 to-do list, but I will be forever pissed off by the pointless undermining of character growth. And the inconsistent dragon anatomy. And the lifting from other books/movies. And the pop culture references pulling me out of the story (such as it was). And by the series continually expecting me to care what happens to Roran, Raging Asshole and Alleged Military Genius.
Whatever. I’ll shed one more figurative tear for the way publishing celebrates mediocrity and move on with my life. At long last.