Bests & Worsts Reviews from Amazon

After the first 50 pages of this book I felt that it was living up to or even surpassing its reputation, and I was completely enthralled. But as the story veered from the modern world into "the Land", there followed perhaps the greatest train wreck I've experienced in any novel I've ever read. The first warning was the naming and language. Unlike Tolkien, Donaldson's attempts to create names are laughable--quite literally. I can't imagine how someone could read sentences like "Berek Heartthew's son was Damelon Giantfriend, and his son was Loric Vilesilencer, who stemmed the corruption of the Demondim, rendering them impotent" with a straight face. And here you also see more of Donaldson's weaknesses: the overuse of fantasy Capitals and the wretched abuse of compoundwords. In this book, when someone speaks of weighty Matters, you shall have the Knowing of it, for its Importance will be telegraphed to you with Capitals. We're always in the Hills, never the hills; people rarely craft but that they Craft; after all, it's all Stone and Sea to them. Does the mere Fact of this capitalization convey Depth to you? And do you accept it as a substitute for depth conveyed through, say, the power of the writing itself? If not, search well for another Book, for Off you this one shall surely Cheese. And oh, those compoundwords. Are you a friend to Giants? No no, you're a "Giantfriend". Did you silence Lord Vile? Then "Vilesilencer" you shall be. An ocean lover, perhaps? Then as "Saltheart Foamfollower" shall ye ever be known! Are those berries to treasure? No, they're "treasure-berries". A "vital brew"? Let's call it "diamonddraught". Looking for stones? Nay, you're "stone-questing." Dirt that heals wounds? That's why we call it "hurtloam"! "Rockbrother", "proud-wife", "Earthfriend"--it's relentless. When you take an eyerest from longreading you'll think, hey, maybe I should have some tastyfood so I'll feel tummyjoy. And to be crystal clear, it's not just the fact of the compounds themselves, but the hackneyed mundanity of them; Donaldson unerringly settles on the most obvious and uninspired combinations, apparently convinced that they resound with exotic mystery, when in fact they're almost universally uncreative eye-rollers. These may seem like nits, but they're a constant annoyance, and in any case there's far worse. The story of dragging Thomas Covenant over the Land does just that--drags, and drags, and drags. The universally one-dimensional characters (including TC himself) sojourn across the one-dimensional Land, page after page after page, with little to make the journey worthwhile. The exposition is lengthy and yet still shallow, and increasingly mind-numbing as it plods along. What tension there is comes mainly from TC's continual tantrums and peevishness. If this doesn't exactly sound like compelling reading, you're right, it's not. Also, to say this book is "derivative" of Tolkien is a serious understatement; it frequently feels like out and out plagiarism. A ring of power, Nazgul substitutes called "ur-viles", large creatures who take days to tell a story and feel our protagonist is too "hasty", a perilous journey to a council of the wise, Mount Doom vs. Mount Thunder--it goes on and on. The borrowing is frequent and overt. This isn't just surface similarity based on the fact that both are epic fantasy, but the wholesale lifting of major elements. Donaldson does embroider the story with some of his own additions, but I found them stereotypical and uninspired. Even the most derivative work might still be worth reading if it's done well, of course, but Donaldson is far less concerned with telling a good story than he is about rubbing our noses in his protagonist's vileness, starting with the signal event of the book: his rape of a child. I hold authors responsible for their choices, and Donaldson never comes close to justifying his decision to ornament this turgid, plagiarized fantasy with the rape of an innocent young girl. Worst of all, later in the book he attributes this self-righteous thought to his rapist: "[Lord] Foul! The Wraiths were helpless! What do you do for an encore, rape children?" When I hit that sentence it was all I could do to keep myself from throwing the book to the ground and stomping on it. Was this dark irony, or foreshadowing, or perhaps just unintentional self-mockery? I couldn't care less. It was a repellent inclusion, given the author's cavalier willingness to commit sexual violence against one of his own characters. Despite the length of this review, I've only touched on the major faults of the book (and I've omitted others entirely). If there's a prize lurking at the bottom of the remaining 1000 pages of this cereal box I won't be finding it; there are far too many better books in the world, and life's too short. If you must read it, do yourself a favor and get it from the library rather than paying for it, so you'll have wasted only time and not money.