I was stuck in an airport last week with nothing to do. Normally, I have a handy paperback stashed away for just such emergencies, but since I started college, I haven't actually had time to read for pleasure, so it didn't occur to me to bring a book along.
I went to explore the selection at the one magazine stand in the whole place. It was tiny. I know airport book stores are not known for their selections, but this was abysmal even by those standards. And that's how I got stuck with John Grisham's "The Broker". It was either that or "The Devil Wears Prada."
I went with Grisham because I had vague memories of enjoying some of his work back in middle school. This in itself should have been a hint. My collection of middle school novels is sitting in a box gathering dust in my closet (Mom, stay away from my closet). I keep some on my bookshelf so that I can entertain the fantasy that I'll read them again, but with a few rare exceptions (anything by Madeleine L'Engle and C.S. Lewis' Chronicles of Narnia) they don't get touched. I keep them around because they all had really interesting ideas and so I want to be able to refer back to them if needed. And because I really like being surrounded by books. I have lots.
The Broker is a foray into the political thriller genre. I can understand why Grisham wanted to explore this area. Tom Clancy has made a lot of money with his spook stories about the NSA and friends, and he has also opened the door for other authors to get popular this way. People want to read about all the filthy things our government might be doing right under our nose, and an astute writer could conceivably capitalize on this trend.
An astute writer would start doing some research, both on all those spooky government agencies, and on the man who made them famous. Said writer would discover that Clancy is more than a little connected in Washington. It is said that Clancy gives talks at Fort Meade and Langley on a regular basis. He knows all the right people. He does all the research. The perceptive and aspiring writer might then discover that he could research for years and still not be able to match Clancy's knowledge base.
At this point, the writer has a choice. If he is a genuinely good writer, he might decide to find a co-conspirator who knows more about such things and work out a co-authorship. Neal Stephenson did this with great success when he recruited J. Frederick George for Cobweb and Interface. The writer might also decide that he is unqualified for this sort of writing and his efforts would be better spent elsewhere. If, however, the writer is neither skilled nor well-informed and decides to press on anyway, the end result is The Broker, a steaming pile of dreck not suitable for toilet paper, much less actual devotion of time.
The plot is overly simplistic, with no depth whatsoever. One gets the sense that the main character represents Grisham's aspirations in life, though even he is fairly one-dimensional. His treatment of the NSA is so trifling that one suspects him of limiting his research to Clancy novels, and occasionally, flat out fabrication. His descriptions of Italian fashion and culture are equally vapid. And we shall not even speak of the seduction by the main character of his Italian teacher.
I was trying to figure out why I felt the need to rip into this book in such a public and unprofessional manner. The answer is simple. People might actually buy this book. Some poor soul stuck in an airport somewhere might see this as a viable way to pass time in the terminal. And I can't let that happen.
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