Here we have an author responsbile for some absolutely brilliant books – the sort of novels that could take a literary fool by the scruff of the neck and throw them with verve and vigour into the nearest library.
His Alex Cross series of books were adrenaline fuelled, page-after-page action, and any fan of the TV series 24 should jump onboard this particular train.
But if they do jump on board the Patterson bandwagon, and they do focus their attention on the Alex Cross series, they should accept that they are in for both enjoyment and abject disppointment. Because while around the first eight books are breathtakingly brilliant, the latter day Patterson tomes are jizz.
The writing is lazy, the twists and turns sign-posted and the sort of writing that used to grip you and leave you hungry for more has disappeared and been replaced by an uncomfortable bloated feeling of blandness.
Patterson tends to write about four books a year, some of which he co-writes with a colleague, and over the past few years his prolific nature of productivity has remained, but the quality has not.
It’s a shame too, as at their peak, his thrillers are simply the best. But like all things, including the 24, all things have a shelf life – and if you decide to bleed an idea dry, you end up haemorraghing it.