Sparks was an unreliable narrator who was frothy, unforgiving, irresponsible and had a crippling obsession that made his life turbulent and caused him to be entirely ostracised by those he was once close to. Sparks and his psychotically unstable manic crusade is utterly unlikeable. He gives his ‘talents’ hallowed status, screams pungent putdowns at everyone, has an angry determination to be right and has unshakable self-belief and pathological narcissism that has led to a life of bitter frustration and loathing.
Strange circumstances surround him but he is curiously disconnected from and spectacularly indifferent to almost everything and everyone else. He is vindictive, into all manner of sin, self indulgent and famously hard-living. His writing style is deliberately disjointed and has a melodramatic tone and it paints a distinctly less flattering picture of a man who vigorously denies sense.
“He wouldn’t stop talking and doing things, so I had to stop him talking and doing things.”
“You’re just worms, Jack, trying to picture what’s above the soil.”
This is a tale of disappointed greed, inescapable brutality, gentle and no so gentle manipulation, weepy catharsis and insurmountable stupidity. Any interest in the plot declined dramatically after chapter one of his gaudy ahistorical chaos. This is a story of needless enterprise, accusatory acts and physical self-sacrifice that is not glorious, just improbable, dull and full of short-comings.
“Travelling under cover of darkness to avoid the plague patrols.”
“Suitably compromised morals.”