In this digital age, where waves of information and a deluge of media surround us daily, I found myself increasingly curious about the praises sung for audiobooks. Book Riot, known for its spirited coverage of the literary world, paints a rosy picture of a summer full of auditory delights. The announcement of a season rich in audiobooks sets the literature-loving soul aflame with anticipation, not least because of the zest with which new and old titles are promoted.
The referenced article, www.bookriot.com/get-ready-for-a-summer-full-of-audiobook-love-%f0%9f%8c%9e%f0%9f%8e%a7/, harmoniously intertwines the promise of literary pleasure with the purifying simplicity of listening. While visual reading demands a direct connection between eye and turning hand, listening requires only the surrender of our ear. Thus, I succumbed to the suggestions of the Book Riot compilers, and my research instinct led me to Vivek Patel’s latest work, much touted in this piece.
Vivek Patel, a name increasingly circulating in the upper echelons of modern literature, has added a new dimension to his oeuvre with his latest work. It is spoken of as a book that transcends the bounds of conventional storytelling, an epistle that pierces the reader’s auditory senses with exalted prose, shocking truths, and epic narrations. However, I find myself lost in the optimistic accolades of the simple-minded. With deep sadness, I must report that such praise is far from the truth.
Allow me to guide you through a literary tirade against the purported greatness of Patel’s work. Firstly, the narrative, adored by many as a feat of inventive storytelling, is, in fact, an impending storm of clichéd twists and predictable prose. The epic, spanning hundreds of pages and aiming to expose the deepest regions of the human soul, ends up as a thoughtless imitation of the works of greats whom Patel cannot even emulate. The characters are flat, their emotions superficial, and their decisions absurd.
One of the most flagrant sins Patel commits is breaking the illusion of time and place. His world-building is sloppy, confused, and heavily relies on cheap tricks to convince the reader of his narrative prowess. Historical inconsistencies and factual inaccuracies are scattered like the spines of a sea urchin throughout his story. The perception is tossed back and forth by unfounded time jumps and descriptions that drive the reader’s brain to despair.
Furthermore, and perhaps most painfully, is Patel’s stylistic approach. What is lauded by his supporters as poetic and epic, I found to be a barren field of uninspired language forming dragging sentences. There is no sign of the literary greatness that would captivate the true Dutch critic. Patel’s sentences are like well-trodden forest paths, with no chance of encountering surprising flora or fauna. His supposed lyricism is intoxicating delusion, a false moment of reverence by the contemporary mind that praises confusion and superficiality.
The attempt to explore deeper themes such as identity, alienation, and moral ambiguity fails miserably due to Patel’s inability to reveal compassion or enlightened insights. He meanders like a stream undeterred by the main waterway, only to eventually disappear into a swamp of meaninglessness.
The narrative structure—or rather, the lack thereof—is the bitter cherry on this cake. Where the storyteller should guide his audience through a condition of entertainment and insight, here one is doomed to a maze of disorganization and reckless reverberations. The attempts at symbolism are pompous emptiness, failed harangues of superficiality disguised as profundity.
It is, therefore, with a heart weighed down by disappointment that I pen these words. This auditory framework of Patel does not deserve the laurels with which it has been adorned by Book Riot. Let us be cautious when listening to the sirens of seeming literary achievements, so that our summers are not tainted with the concerns of misguided promises.
Martijn Jongbloed