I’ve been at this book-review blog for about 12 years now, and in times past, I’ve announced in the title when I’m reviewing a book that I’d chosen not to finish. I often feel like an explanation’s in order for why I have the right to review a book I didn’t finish, so here goes: I read a lot, and when I put down a book, I’ve always got a good reason for it, so if my explanation helps a reader avoid something worthless or trashy (or if my explanation infuriates another reader and it sparks a conversation), then I feel like I’ve done my part as a blogger.

I picked this book up in the first place, because it’s the prequel to The Pillars of the Earth, a book short-listed for our Siblings Book Club this year but which didn’t make our Top-12. Because I had purchased Pillars and was hoping to read it someday, I thought it would be smart to read its prequel first, since I had just found it in a Little Free Library.

There’s no argument that Follett’s an engaging author gifted to write an epic such as this. The fault with this book does not lie in his imagination or ability. The way he describes life in the “Middle Ages” (997 C.E., aka A.D. 997) puts the reader there. Edgar’s escape to steal another man’s wife, his survival of the Viking invasion, his wit and everything make him a character—well-rounded, prudent, and flawed—that can carry the weight of the epic moving forward. The book has great potential, and with a little editing, I’d probably have continued.

The fault of the book is the constant, every-scene references to and descriptions of sex that are completely unnecessary! It reminds me of trying to read James Clavell—why must the literary characters of these otherwise fantastic stories be so motivated by sex and infidelity? And why must an author, talented as he is, prove himself to be just another dirty old man describing what a 20-something girl feels (and more) during her first tryst? These massive tomes by Follett and Clavell are thinly-veiled romance novels that most readers should be embarrassed to hold. Fabio might as well be on the cover.

Again, the story is probably amazing, but why would I give up dozens of my hours to consume his thousands of his pages just for a good yarn? There’s far better authors out there for that. I recall my season of reading James Michener, another author gifted to write the epic novel, whose likely stories include occasional scenes of romance and sex but which are by no means driven by it. I don’t recall anything from, say, Centennial, that made me wonder if I might be reading a Harlequin novel instead of a story about a town in Colorado. It’s just a completely different feel—an entertaining epic novel without the gratuitous smut. Win-win.

I’m interested in finding out the paths this story and its follow-up novels take, but not interested enough to invest so much time and good conscience. I’ve given up on it, and depending on who’s reading this, maybe you now know why it’s not worth your time either.

©2023 E.T.