When the Wind Blows

Patterson's atrociously elementary prose aside, ‘When the Wind Blows' is an afront to good storytelling sensibilites the world over and is another example of literature of the lowest possible common denominator. Whilst the likes of Dan Brown have been the most recent perpetrators of this populism, Patterson has certainly been the more consistent of the two and quite arguably the worst offender of all modern hacks. I must surmise that even the combined powers of Dickens, Poe, Kafka or the most literate modern storytellers could not bend Patterson into writing a competent tale should they slap him a thousand times in the face with their own manuscripts.

The plot is an absolute mess having to do with the secretive genetic manipulation of a little girl and the two protagonists who find themselves tangled up in the whole scheme and whose mission becomes to free the girl from her experimental captivity. How that happens, one can only hope to care a little less about as the “story” unfolds with all the grace and weight of a weekday television drama. Pathetic romance between the tale's heroes degenerates into being laughably absurd at its worst moments (and soap opera-esque at best), the action throughout is completely lacking in suspense or thrills; but perhaps the worst offense of them all can be summed up in the cartoonishness of the narrative, chock-full of plot turns so contrived as to make M. Night Shyamalan at his worst blush. The characters are developed with as much interest as one might put into stapling together a cardboard box and much of the inanity takes place over the modern mass market fiction phenomena of brisk three-seven word dialogue sessions, which can go on for seeming pages at a time with little to no cognitive progress made, narratively-speaking. One would assume even a writer of Patterson's lowly capabilities could at least muster up some sort of detail when describing his characters, settings or set pieces... yet we get about as much an impression of such vitals as one might make of the Taj Mahal through the bottom end of a foggy glass.

An Amazon.com reviewer summed this novel up perfectly with the headline of his review: “When the Wind Sucks.” To say a Berenstain Bears book is written with decidedly more wit, charm and readability would be uttering the very least of truths in regards to Patteron's immeasurably awful writing. Spare yourselves this waste of paper and introduce yourselves to literature worthy of your time and mental faculties. Mass market drivel like this undoubtedly contributes greatly to the sharply declining literacy of our society, even if its pedestrian characters, Bruckheimer plot and by-the-books action do at least make for the most pathetically lazy of easy, diet reads.

For those who actually enjoy great, well-written literature, I can't warn you away from this book or its brand of modern “mass market appeal” writing strongly enough. Avoid at all costs and your IQ will certainly show no end of gratitude.