Skip to main content

Prayer of the Dragon by Eliot Pattison: A review

Prayer of the Dragon (Inspector Shan, #5)Prayer of the Dragon by Eliot Pattison
My rating: 2 of 5 stars

"Omit needless words," wrote William Strunk Jr. in The Elements of Style. It is a dictum that Eliot Pattison could profit by following. He seems to suffer from diarrhea of the pen or word processor. Words pour forth in great profusion, often repetitively and to very little effect. The words do not really seem to advance the narrative or provide enlightenment. They simply occupy space on the page. One would think that Pattison is being paid by the word.

Not only is he overly wordy but Pattison has certain writing tics that get under my skin. For example, the repetition of the descriptive phrase "the old Tibetan." This appears on practically every page of the book and sometimes more than once on the page. We get it. There are no young lamas, but find an alternative way of describing them, for Buddha's sake!

What irritates me most about this series is that I really, REALLY want to like it. I keep picking up the next entry in the series every few months in the hope that the execution might finally live up to the promise. So far, disappointment has been my only reward.

In every book, the former Beijing inspector Shan and his two friends and companions, the monks Gendun and Lokesh, wander endlessly over the mountains and through the caves of Tibet where every rock seems to have been painted with a sacred symbol of some deity or demon. They are repeatedly caught and beaten and tortured, but they persevere, with Shan investigating murders which the authorities don't pursue or don't even know about. Those ever-present deities and/or demons will somehow prove to be involved and, in the end, Shan will reveal all in a meandering narrative.

Oh, and also, there will be an American in the mix. The plots are really very predictable.

In this entry, Shan is summoned to a remote village (apparently, all villages in Tibet are remote) where a comatose man was found with two dead bodies. The headman of the village drew the conclusion that this man was the murderer and now they are waiting for him to wake up so they can execute him.

Almost immediately, Shan intuits that something is unusual about this man, but it is only when he finally wakes up that he is able to determine that the man, in fact, is not Tibetan but Navajo. He was in Tibet with his niece, a researcher investigating ancestral ties between the Navajo people and the Bon, ancient ancestors of the people of Tibet. She was seeking to prove that they were two branches of the same stream. Now she has disappeared and her uncle is seriously injured and accused of murder.  

Shan sets out to discover what really happened on the mountain where the murders occurred and the Navajo man was injured. He quickly learns that these were not the first murders in the area. Indeed, there has been a pattern of murders here in recent years with the most curious feature of the crimes being that the hands of the victims are being removed by the murderer.

Shan's investigation reveals a tangled web of relationships between the unmapped mountain village, illegal gold miners, and, as always, corrupt officials in Lhasa and Beijing. How he puts all of this together to arrive at a solution to the murders and to again save Gendun and Lokesh involves lots of wandering and finally solving the riddle of Dragon Mountain, the place "where the world begins" in thunder and lightning.

By the last couple of chapters, I had lost interest and was scanning the pages pretty quickly, but I doubt that I missed anything truly significant.  



View all my reviews

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Poetry Sunday: Don't Hesitate by Mary Oliver

How about we share another Mary Oliver poem? After all, you can never have too many of those. In this one, the poet seems to acknowledge that it is often hard to simply live in and enjoy the moment, perhaps because we are afraid it can't last. She urges us to give in to that moment and fully experience the joy. Although "much can never be redeemed, still, life has some possibility left." Don't Hesitate by Mary Oliver If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy, don’t hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty of lives and whole towns destroyed or about to be. We are not wise, and not very often kind. And much can never be redeemed. Still, life has some possibility left. Perhaps this is its way of fighting back, that sometimes something happens better than all the riches or power in the world. It could be anything, but very likely you notice it in the instant when love begins. Anyway, that’s often the case. Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid of its plenty. Joy is no...

Poetry Sunday: Blackberry-Picking by Seamus Heaney

My mother was a farm wife and a prodigious canner. She canned fruit and vegetables from the garden, even occasionally meat. But the best thing that she canned, in my opinion, was blackberry jam. Even as I type those words my mouth waters!  Of course, before she could make that jam, somebody had to pick the blackberries. And that somebody was quite often named Dorothy. I think Seamus Heaney might have spent some time among the briars plucking those delicious black fruits as well, so he would have known that "Once off the bush the fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour." They don't keep; you have to get that jam made in a hurry! Blackberry-Picking by Seamus Heaney Late August, given heavy rain and sun For a full week, the blackberries would ripen. At first, just one, a glossy purple clot Among others, red, green, hard as a knot. You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust ...

Poetry Sunday: Hymn for the Hurting by Amanda Gorman

You probably remember poet Amanda Gorman from her appearance at the inauguration of President Biden. She read her poem "The Hill We Climb" on that occasion. After the senseless slaughter in Uvalde this week, she was inspired to write another poem which was published in The New York Times. It seemed perfect for the occasion and so I stole it in order to feature it here, just in case you didn't get a chance to read it in the Times . Hymn for the Hurting by Amanda Gorman Everything hurts, Our hearts shadowed and strange, Minds made muddied and mute. We carry tragedy, terrifying and true. And yet none of it is new; We knew it as home, As horror, As heritage. Even our children Cannot be children, Cannot be. Everything hurts. It’s a hard time to be alive, And even harder to stay that way. We’re burdened to live out these days, While at the same time, blessed to outlive them. This alarm is how we know We must be altered — That we must differ or die, That we must triumph or try. ...