I’ve not been well since Sunday night and I’ve done little else but moan, nap and read intermittently. Finishing the Hunger Games trilogy has not helped me be any less grumpy.
Maybe it’s the fact I can neither concentrate nor feign interest in anything, but I’ll confess to being unimpressed. That means my Crimson Petal and The White book hangover spans Six whole books. Six books that have elicited nothing but a gallic shrug and the odd sigh.
I liked the inital Hunger Games novel (although in the can’t-be-bothered fog of my bug I confess I don’t even remember whether in fact it was called The Hunger Games.) It was pretty weak, or I’m that ambivalent, one of the two. But the subsequent novels of Catching Fire (I just had to look that up) and Mockinjay get weaker as the trilogy (and story) progresses. I was nodding off a bit, I confess, but about 2/3rds of the way into Mockingjay I was merely skimming, getting a bit lost and beyond any motivation to actually go back and see what I’d missed. I knew where we were headed, so what would be the point..?
It was probably a waste of time to read any book at all, but even well, I think I’d have felt I’d wasted my time reading the last two chapters of this trilogy. I expected a lot more of this week and these books.