DAN BROWN’S INFERNO
By William Urban
I am not a fan of Dan Brown, the worst novelist to ever make a fortune banging out thrillers, but this, his latest offering, is better written than the Da Vinci Code and its sequels. Sure, there are passages that probably make Mark Twain want to rise out of his crypt — the only melodramatic device not employed in this tale — but there are fewer bad sentences.
To mention one of Twain’s cautionary points, the unnecessary adjective, Brown would say (and I quote from memory of an audio-book or I would look up the exact wording), “the fading sun illuminated her pretty face.” Twain would ask, “Does she have another face?”
Brown likes “tall”, “handsome”, “famous” to describe the Harvard professor of Symbolism who likes to pause in the middle of a flight from a mysterious assassin to deliver a lecture on some obscure point of art or philosophy, but he does this less than before. Also, Professor Robert Langdon makes fewer claims that Symbolism can explain almost everything. Good for him here, since one of the female characters has an IQ considerably higher than his. Previous female leads couldn’t figure Langdon out until after the story was over. When they did, they dropped him.
This allowed Brown to start each book with a new love story, one that the principals never have time to consummate (or perhaps no ability to do — Langdon’s principal interest is himself, which he illustrates by constantly thinking back on what he said in some lecture to presumably packed audiences in Haavad or Florence or Istanbul). In any case, everybody knows him, and in this book they are trying to arrest him, kill him, or whatever. (We don’t know why because nobody will tell him or us what is really going on).
The real plot isn’t about the end of the world, though at several points that seemed to be what was happening, but the museums, churches, and other historic sites that Langdon dashes through in an effort to understand the Dante-inspired puzzle left behind by the madman who started the whole business. But not to worry. Inferno is really only a screen play for a forthcoming movie starring some tall, handsome, slightly ageing Indiana Jones without martial arts knowledge and whose physical training consists of swimming (where he presumably prepares his lectures in his photographic memory). Brown makes his customary jabs at the Roman Catholic Church, at Capitalism, and other safe targets; he never mentions Islamic thoughts or practices, which is good because jihadists might identify him with Langdon more than he already does himself, and he might not be able to talk his way out of trouble or find a hidden door to escape the way his fictional hero does.
The reader of the audio book is first-rate most of the time. He manages to get through entire passages of Italian very well, then stumbles over simple words. When Langdon and his (insert adjective here) female friend are fleeing through the Boboli Gardens above the Pitti Palace, the reader repeatedly says Bubbly Gardens. Since Bo-bo-li is easily checked on Google, I was put off as much as by the reader of a spy thriller who could not pronounce Trastevere, a suburb of Rome where one can find reasonably priced restaurants and interesting bars. No menus in English, which is tells the experienced eater that authentic Italian food is served there.
As it happened, I have been at every place mentioned in the novel, whether Florence, Venice or Istanbul, so I listened to the descriptions much as Brown intended — as a tourist recalling what he has seen or hoped to see some day. He gives just enough information to jog the memory or to occasion a smile, but not so much as to bore (unless you happen to be one of Langdon’s ex-girl-friends). Whenever he makes a witty comment, he grins. He grins a lot.
In contrast to the travelers who have been hustled past a great monument, I lived in Florence and have taken multiple student groups around Italy, where we often stood in front of a church, or statue, or painting, and reviewed what our art historians had already covered in class. This made me a bit impatient with Langdon saying that he did not know Italian, yet being able to understand it or speak it whenever the plot required. At times I wanted to shout, “If you are going to be a specialist in symbols in Renaissance art and in Dante, you jolly well better be able to speak Italian!”
Translations don’t always hack it. I remember one conference where I had a disagreement with a professor from the University of Chicago about what Machiavelli meant by a certain passage. At lunchtime I walked down to a local used book store, found several copies of il Principe for next to nothing and brought them back for the participants who could read the text in question. We persuaded the professor to reluctantly admit that he could be wrong. (I did not get a thank you note, which may explain why when I visualize Langdon, I get a mental picture of that guy.) It’s the same for reading Dante, which is why about half of any good Dante text is footnotes to explain what the words and ideas meant in 1300.
Reviewers of this novel have been merciless. Much tougher than I have been. But Dan Brown doesn’t worry. The reviewers may be well-paid, but he is rich.
On the good side, there is nothing in the book that is revolting or shocking. No sex, either. Brown cheats with the plot, but if you’ve read him before, you’ll be expecting that. With O’Henry it was a twist at the end. With Brown, it’s every time he runs out of ideas.
As escapist literature, it’s okay. A reader might even be provoked to think a bit. Or to book a trip to Florence. One tip: it’s hotter in Florence in August than in Monmouth, and no hotel I can afford has air conditioning. Go in March or April, or September. Take Brown’s Inferno with you, and when you go home, leave it behind.
Review Atlas (August 15, 2013)
