Before I begin, I would like to state that from the very start, I disliked J.K. Rowlings. The moment I picked up the first potter book and began to read, I thought, oh, this is a fine Roald Dahl book. As I read on, it changed to, well, there seems to be a bit of sneaker hill* thrown in here for good measure.
It is not that I disliked the story, it was the sheer hacky-ness of it that turned me off. So, I read the first one, and didn’t pay attention until after the fourth book had been out for a long while. At that point, I went to the local library (copiague at the time), and picked up the the second, third and fourth books all at once. I read them all in several sittings and wondered what all the fuss was about.
Not a bad yarn, but it seemed to be a mish-mosh of every Dahl book pretty much ever, with the sneaker hill plot, and a dash of scooby-doo thrown in for good measure. Rowling wised up in the last few books, adding a dark tone and lethality that she no doubt thought would separate her from any such comparisons. It fooled pretty much everyone who worships her un-original feet. Not me.
I believed then, and also now, after completing the final book, that she is not fit to lick Mr. Dahl, or Mrs. Littles bootspittle.
The last book was pretty much the same as the rest. The darker tone, and corpses tossed around shamelessly seemed tacked on, as if to say, ‘take me seriously!’ Mrs. Rowling, there is something called dark humor, and tact, that a ‘childrens’ author can use to insert gravity in a subtle fashion. A kind of wink and nudge to the adults who also might choose to enjoy the stories. None of this ‘tragedy’ could disguise the fact that this book was a bloated fetch-quest, filled with cop-out answers and an ending that should have earned her a Marie Antoinette-like beheading from her throng of loyal fans.
I, for one, am glad to see this literary travesty come to an end, and hope that Mrs. Rowling will retreat from the writing desk and spend the rest of her days happily wading through her Scrooge Mcduck sized money bin.
Bottom line. Harry should have died. Then I might have at least a shred of respect for her body of work. But the marketing machine rolls on, eh J.K.?
I think the last page should have revealed the true meaning of her initials.
*Sneaker Hill was a book written by Jane Little in 1967. If you choose, hunt down a copy and read what pretty much amounts to a prequel.