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The Passage (The Collector's Edition)
     

The Passage (The Collector's Edition)

3.4 12
by Justin Cronin
 
"Every so often a novel-reader's novel comes along: an enthralling, entertaining story wedded to simple, supple prose, both informed by tremendous imagination. Summer is the perfect time for such books, and this year readers can enjoy the gift of Justin Cronin's The Passage. Read fifteen pages and you will find yourself captivated; read thirty and you will find

Overview

"Every so often a novel-reader's novel comes along: an enthralling, entertaining story wedded to simple, supple prose, both informed by tremendous imagination. Summer is the perfect time for such books, and this year readers can enjoy the gift of Justin Cronin's The Passage. Read fifteen pages and you will find yourself captivated; read thirty and you will find yourself taken prisoner and reading late into the night. It has the vividness that only epic works of fantasy and imagination can achieve. What else can I say? This: read this book and the ordinary world disappears."--Stephen King

Special Features Exclusive to this Collector's Edition

* Epic cover artwork by Tomislav Tikulin
* Color and black & white interior artwork by Jill Bauman
* Incredible photo gallery of research trips the author took for the book (including notes from the author discussing his inspiration for key scenes)
* Map of a key location hand drawn by the author
* Deluxe oversized design
* Extremely collectible edition

Also available in eBook, Hardcover, and audiobook formats.

Editorial Reviews

Charles Taylor

How many of us, particularly as students, have dutifully set out with a summer-reading list of necessary classics and quickly abandoned them for some juicy story that called out irresistibly? Sometimes, as when summer goes by while you're journeying through The Count of Monte Cristo, those things coincide. But my favorite summer reading memories have very little to do with approved reading. My first brutally hot summer in New York City was saved thanks to a bedroom air conditioner and Neal Stephenson's Cryptonomicon. A few years later, I endured my wife taunting me about reading a "girly" book during the few weeks I was happily enmeshed in Kathleen Winsor's Forever Amber (which I use to annoy literary types by calling it the greatest novel of the 20th century -- most days I'm kidding).

In summer reading, size matters. Especially during the dog days, you want to look at the brick of pages in your right hand and know that you'll be happily turning them for a while, out of the heat, in a place that holds more appeal than vistas of baking asphalt or scorched lawns.

That kind of book may be popular but it isn't common. So it will be no surprise if readers feel they've found one in Justin Cronin's The Passage. At 784 pages, it's fat. And as the first part of a trilogy, it holds the promise of two more long reads to come. Also, as a story about a band of human pioneers trying to ride out a plague of vampires that has turned America into a virus-ridden wasteland, it arrives without any promise of being good for you.

Which isn't to say it might not be good for fiction. Cronin, a professor of English at Rice University, is working here from an honorable, and unfashionable, impulse: to tell an epic story that will appeal to a broad swath of readers. Nobody embarks on an epic trilogy without ambition, but it seems to me that what Cronin is doing here is more about service. He's working for the reader, he wants to immerse whoever picks up the book and, to quote from Stephen King's advance praise, to make the ordinary world disappear.

For a while he does, though he begins in a recognizably quotidian setting. The book opens in rural Iowa where a teenage diner waitress becomes, in short order, pregnant, homeless, and a roadside prostitute. Her little girl, Amy, who will become both this book's heroine and its presiding spirit, is targeted for a secret government project doing human testing on a virus that may hold the key to immortality. But when Wolgast, the FBI agent in charge of procuring subjects, finds out that his orders are to get a little girl rather than the death-row inmates he's been signing up, he balks and goes fugitive to save Amy.

This tale of man and child going on the lam as a vampire virus sends an already precarious America spiralling into anarchy promises to be both narratively and emotionally enfolding. But when Cronin jumps ahead nearly a hundred years to follow a group of survivors who are carrying on as best they can in a forest fortress, something in the story goes flat.

The inevitable comparisons to Stephen King remind us that, even at his most fantastic, King's characters never feel distant from the reality of our lives. And King's propensity towards sentimentality is overcome by the accumulated force of his storytelling. By contrast, the spare, dry language Cronin uses calls up Cormac McCarthy at his faux-mythological worst:

She remembered people. She remembered the Man. She remembered the other man and his wife and the boy and then the woman. She remembered no one at all. She remembered one day thinking: I am alone. There is no I but I.

Reading The Passage was, for me, a divided experience. I wasn't held by the story even as I was cheering on what Cronin is doing for readers. Though his pacing falters, he already shows a feel for intercutting simultaneous strains of narrative.

Recently, a friend I got back in touch with after many years told me, somewhat sheepishly, that she enjoyed reading Stephen King. I told her she had no reason to be embarrassed by reading one of the contemporary novelists who will last. It's too soon to say whether Justin Cronin will last. But the impulse behind his wish to give readers a big fat piece of storytelling pleasure has already lasted centuries. Hell, it could outlive vampires.

--Charles Taylor

Product Details

ISBN-13:
9781587672316
Publisher:
Cemetery Dance Publications
Publication date:
12/01/2010
Series:
Passage Trilogy Series , #1
Edition description:
Collector's Edition

Related Subjects

Read an Excerpt

The Passage


By Justin Cronin

Ballantine Books

Copyright © 2010 Justin Cronin
All right reserved.

ISBN: 9780345504968

Wolgast had been to the Compound only once, the previous summer, to meet with Colonel Sykes.  Not a job interview, exactly; it had been made clear to Wolgast that the assignment was his if he wanted it.  A pair of soldiers drove him in a van with blacked out windows, but Wolgast could tell they were taking him west from Denver, into the mountains.   The drive took six hours, and by the time they pulled into the Compound, he’d actually managed to fall asleep.  He stepped from the van into the bright sunshine of a summer afternoon.  He stretched and looked around.   From the topography, he’d have guessed he was somewhere around Telluride.  It could have been further north.  The air felt thin and clean in his lungs; he felt the dull throb of a high-altitude headache at the top of his skull. 

He was met in the parking lot by a civilian, a compact man dressed in jeans and a khaki shirt rolled at the sleeves, a pair of old-fashioned aviators perched on his wide, faintly bulbous nose.  This was Richards.  

“Hope the ride wasn’t too bad,” Richards said as they shook hands.   Up close Wolgast saw that Richards’ cheeks were pockmarked with old acne scars.  “We’re pretty high up here.  If you’renot used to it, you’ll want to take it easy.”

Richards escorted Wolgast across the parking area to a building he called the Chalet, which was exactly what it sounded like: a large Tudor structure, three stories tall, with the exposed timbers of an old-fashioned sportsman’s lodge.  The mountains had once been full of these places, Wolgast knew, hulking relics from an era before time-share condos and modern resorts.  The building faced an open lawn, and beyond, at a hundred yards or so, a cluster of more workaday structures: cinderblock barracks, a half-dozen military inflatables, a low-slung building that resembled a roadside motel.  Military vehicles, Humvees and smaller jeeps and five ton trucks, were moving up and down the drive; in the center of the lawn, a group of men with broad chests and trim haircuts, naked to the waist, were sunning themselves on lawn chairs.  

Stepping into the Chalet, Wolgast had the disorienting sensation of peeking behind a movie set; the place had been gutted to the studs, its original architecture replaced by the neutral textures of a modern office building: gray carpeting, institutional lighting, acoustic tile drop ceilings.  He might have been in a dentist’s office, or the high-rise off the freeway where he met his accountant once a year to do his taxes.  They stopped at the front desk, where Richards asked him to turn over his handheld and his weapon, which he passed to the guard, a kid in cammos, who tagged them. There was an elevator, but Richards walked past it and led Wolgast down a narrow hallway to a heavy metal door that opened on a flight of stairs.  They ascended to the second floor, and made their way down another non-descript hallway to Sykes’ office. 

Sykes rose from behind his desk as they entered: a tall, well-built man in uniform, his chest spangled with the various bars and little bits of color that Wolgast had never understood.  His office was neat as a pin, its arrangement of objects, right down to the framed photos on his desk, giving the impression of having been placed for maximum efficiency.   Resting in the center of the desk was a single manila folder, fat with folded paper.  Wolgast knew it was almost certainly his personnel file, or some version of it.  

They shook hands and Sykes offered him coffee, which Wolgast accepted.  He wasn’t drowsy but the caffeine, he knew, would help the headache.  

“Sorry about the bullshit with the van,” Sykes said, and waved him to a chair.  “That’s just how we do things.”

A soldier brought in the coffee, a plastic carafe and two china cups on a tray.  Richards remained standing behind Sykes’ desk, his back to the broad windows that looked out on the woodlands that ringed the Compound.  Sykes explained what he wanted Wolgast to do.  It was all quite straight forward, he said, and by now Wolgast knew the basics.  The Army needed between ten and twenty death-row inmates to serve in the third-stage trials of an experimental drug therapy, codenamed Project Noah.   In exchange for their consent, these men would have their sentences commuted to life without parole.  It would be Wolgast’s job to obtain the signatures of these men, nothing more.  Everything had been legally vetted, but because the project was a matter of national security, all of these men would be declared legally dead.  Thereafter, they would spend the rest of their lives in the care of the federal penal system, a white-collar prison camp, under assumed identities.  The men would be chosen based upon a number of factors, but all would be men between the ages of twenty and thirty-five with no living first-degree relatives.  Wolgast would report directly to Sykes; he’d have no other contact, though he’d remain, technically, in the employment of the Bureau.  

“Do I have to pick them?”  Wolgast asked.

Sykes shook his head.  “That’s our job.  You’ll get your orders from me.  All you have to do is get their consent.  Once they’re signed on, the Army will take it from there.  They’ll be moved to the nearest federal lock-up, then we’ll transport them here.”

Wolgast thought a moment.   “Colonel, I have to ask--“

“What we’re doing?”  He seemed, at that moment, to permit himself an almost human-looking smile.

Wolgast nodded.  “I understand I can’t be very specific.  But I’m going to be asking them to sign over their whole lives.  I have to tell them something.”

Sykes exchanged a look with Richards, who shrugged.  “I’ll leave you now,” Richards said, and nodded at Wolgast.  “Agent.” 

When Richards had left, Sykes leaned back in his chair.  “I’m not a biochemist, agent.  You’ll have to be satisfied with the layman’s version.  Here’s the background, at least the part I can tell you. About ten years ago, the CDC got a call from a doctor in La Paz.  He had four patients, all Americans, who had come down with what looked like Hantavirus – high fever, vomiting, muscle pain, headache, hypoxemia.  The four of them had been part of an eco-tour, deep in the jungle.  They claimed that they were part of a group of fourteen but had gotten separated from the others and had been wandering in the jungle for weeks.  It was sheer luck that they’d stumbled onto a remote trading post run by a bunch of Franciscan friars, who arranged their transport to La Paz.  Now, Hanta isn’t the common cold, but it’s not exactly rare, either, so none of this would have been more than a blip on the CDC’s radar if not for one thing.  All of them were terminal cancer patients.  The tour was organized by an organization called ‘Last Wish.’  You’ve heard of them?”

Wolgast nodded.  “I thought they just took people skydiving, things like that.”

 “That’s what I thought, too.  But apparently not.  Of the four, one had an inoperable brain tumor, two had acute lymphocytic leukemia, and the fourth had ovarian cancer.  And every single one of them became well.  Not just the Hanta, or whatever it was.  No cancer.  Not a trace.”

Wolgast felt lost.   “I don’t get it.”

Sykes sipped his coffee.  “Well, neither did anyone at the CDC.   But something had happened, some interaction between their immune systems and something, most likely viral, that they’d been exposed to in the jungle.  Something they ate?  The water they drank?   No one could figure it out.  They couldn’t even say exactly where they’d been.”  He leaned forward over his desk.  “Do you know what the thymus gland is?”

Wolgast shook his head.

Sykes pointed at his chest, just above the breastbone.  “Little thing in here, between the sternum and the trachea, about the size of an acorn.  In most people, it’s atrophied completely by puberty, and you could go your whole life not knowing you had one, unless it was diseased.  Nobody really knows what it does, or at least they didn’t, until they ran scans on these four patients.  The thymus had somehow turned itself back on.  More than back on: it had enlarged to three times its usual size.  It looked like a malignancy but it wasn’t.  And their immune systems had gone into overdrive.  A hugely accelerated rate of cellular regeneration.  And there were other benefits.  Remember these were cancer patients, all over fifty.  It was like they were teenagers again.  Smell, hearing, vision, skin tone, lung volume, physical strength and endurance, even sexual function.  One of the men actually grew back a full head of hair.”

“A virus did this?’

Sykes nodded.  “Like I said, this is the layman’s version.  But I’ve got people downstairs who think that’s exactly what happened.  Some of them have degrees in subjects I can’t even spell.  They talk to me like I’m a child, and they’re not wrong.”

“What happened to them?  The four patients.”

Sykes leaned back in his chair, his face darkening a little.  “Well, this isn’t the happiest part of the story, I’m afraid.  They’re all dead.  The longest any of them survived was eighty-six days.  Cerebral aneurism, heart attack, stroke.  Their bodies just kind of blew a fuse.”  

“What about the others?”  

 “No one knows.  Disappeared without a trace, including the tour operator, who turned out to be a pretty shady character.  It’s likely he was actually working as a drug mule, using these tours as a cover.”  Sykes gave a shrug.  “I’ve probably said too much.  But I think this will help you put things in perspective.  We’re not talking about curing one disease, agent.  We’re talking about curing everything.   How long would a human being live if there were no cancer, no heart disease, no diabetes, no Alzheimer’s?  And we’ve reached the point where we need, absolutely require, human test subjects.  Not a nice term, but there really is no other.  And that’s where you come in.  I need you to get me these men.”

 “Why not the Marshalls?  Isn’t this more up their alley?”

Sykes shook his head dismissively.  “Glorified corrections officers, if you’ll excuse my saying so.   Believe me, we started there.  If I had a sofa I needed carried up the stairs, they’d be the first guys I’d call.  But for this, no.”

Sykes picked up the file off his desk and began to read.  “Bradford Joseph Wolgast, born Ashland, Oregon, September 29, 1974.  B.S. in Criminal Justice 1996, SUNY Buffalo, high honors, recruited by the Bureau but declines, accepts a graduate fellowship at Stony Brook for a PhD in Political Science but leaves after two years to join the Bureau.  After training at Langley sent to—”   He raised his eyebrows at Wolgast.  “—Dayton?” 

Wolgast shrugged.  “It wasn’t very exciting.”

“Well, we all do our time.  Two years in the sticks, a little of this, a little of that, mostly piddly shit but good ratings all around.  After 9/11 asks to transfer to counterterrorism, back to Langley for eighteen months, assigned to the Denver field office September ’04 as liaison to the Treasury, tracking funds moved through U.S. banks by Russian nationals, i.e. the Russian Mafia, though we don’t call them that.  On the personal side: No political affiliations, no memberships, doesn’t even subscribe to the newspaper.  Parents deceased.  Dates a little but no steady girlfriends.  Marries Lila Kyle, an orthopedic surgeon.   Divorced four years later.”  He closed the file and lifted his eyes to Wolgast.  “What we need, agent, is somebody who, to be perfectly candid, has a certain polish.  Good negotiation skills, not just with the prisoners but with the prison authorities.  Somebody who knows how to tread lightly, won’t leave a large impression.  What we’re doing here is perfectly legal—hell, it may be the most important piece of medical research in the history of mankind.  But it could be easily misunderstood.  I’m telling you as much as I am because I think it will help if you understand the stakes, how high they are.”   

Wolgast guessed Sykes was telling him maybe ten percent of the story – a persuasive ten percent, but even so.  “Is it safe?”

Sykes shrugged.  “There’s safe and then there’s safe.  I won’t lie to you.  There are risks.   But we’ll do everything we can to minimize them.  A bad outcome isn’t in anybody’s interest here.  And I remind you that these are death-row inmates.  Not the nicest men you’d ever care to meet, and they don’t exactly have a lot of options.  We’re giving them a chance to live out their lives, and maybe make a significant contribution to medical science at the same time.  It’s not a bad deal, not by a longshot.  Everybody’s on the side of the angels here.”

Wolgast took a last moment to think.  It was all a little hard to take in.  “I guess I don’t see why the military is involved.”

At this, Sykes stiffened; he seemed almost offended.  “Don’t you?  Think about it, agent.   Let’s say a soldier on the ground in Khorramabad or Groznyy takes a piece of shrapnel.  A roadside bomb, say, a bunch of C4 in a lead pipe full of deck screws.  Maybe it’s a piece of blackmarket Russian ordinance.  Believe me, I’ve seen firsthand what these things can do.  We have to dust him out of there, maybe en route he bleeds to death, but if he’s lucky he gets to the field hospital where a trauma surgeon, two medics and three nurses patch him up as best they can before evacuating him to Germany or Saud.  It’s painful, it’s awful, it’s his rotten luck, and he’s probably out of the war.  He’s a broken asset.  All the money we’ve spent on his training is a total loss.  And it gets worse.  He comes home depressed, angry, maybe missing a limb or something worse, with nothing good to say about anyone or anything.  Down at the corner tavern he tells his buddies, I lost my leg, I’m pissing into a bag for the rest of my life, and for what?”  Sykes leaned back in his chair, letting the story sink in.  “We’ve been at war for fifteen years, agent.  By the looks of things, we’ll be in it for fifteen more if we’re lucky.  I won’t kid you.  The single biggest challenge the military faces, has always faced, is keeping soldiers on the field.  So, let’s say the same GI takes the same piece of shrapnel, but within half-a-day his body’s healed itself and he’s back in his unit, fighting for god and country.  You think the military wouldn’t be interested in something like that?”

Wolgast felt chastened.  “I see your point.”

“Good, because you should.”  Sykes expression softened; the lecture was over.  “So maybe it’s the military who’s picking up the check.   I say let them, because frankly, what we’ve spent so far would make your eyes pop out.  I don’t know about you, but I’d like to live to see my great-great-great-grandchildren.  Hell, I’d like to hit a golf ball three-hundred yards on my hundredth birthday and then go home to make love to my wife until she walks funny for a week.  Who wouldn’t?”   He paused, looking at Wolgast searchingly.  “The side of the angels, agent.  Nothing more or less.  Do we have a deal?”

The shook, and Sykes walked him to the door.  Richards was waiting to take him back to the van.  “One last question,” Wolgast asked.  “Why Noah?   What’s it stand for?”

Standing at the door, Sykes glanced quickly at Richards.   In that moment, Wolgast felt the balance of power shifting in the room; Sykes might have been technically in charge, but in some way, Wolgast felt certain, he also reported to Richards, who was probably the link between the military and whoever was really running the show: USAMRID, Homeland, maybe NSA. 

Sykes turned back to Wolgast. “It doesn’t stand for anything.  Let’s put it this way.  You ever read the Bible?”  

“Some.”  Wolgast looked at the both of them.  “When I was a kid.  My mother was a Methodist.”

Sykes allowed himself a second, final smile.  “Go look it up.  The story of Noah and the ark.  See how long he lived. That’s all I’ll say.”

That night, back in his Denver apartment, Wolgast did as Sykes had said.  He didn’t own a Bible, probably hadn’t laid eyes on one since his wedding day.  But he found a concordance on line. 

And all the days of Noah were nine hundred and fifty years; and he died
.

It was then that he realized what the missing piece was, the thing Sykes hadn’t said.  It would be in his file, of course.  It was the reason, of all the federal agents they might have chosen, that they’d picked him.    

They’d chosen him because of Eva, because he’d had to watch his daughter die.

Continues...

Excerpted from The Passage by Justin Cronin Copyright © 2010 by Justin Cronin. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

What People are Saying About This

Jennifer Egan
"Justin Cronin has written a wild, headlong, sweeping extravaganza of a novel. THE PASSAGE is the literary equivalent of a unicorn: a bonafide thriller that is sharply written, deeply humane, ablaze with big ideas, and absolutely impossible to put down."
Stephen King
"Every so often a novel-reader's novel comes along: an enthralling, entertaining story wedded to simple, supple prose, both informed by tremendous imagination. Summer is the perfect time for such books, and this year readers can enjoy the gift of Justin Cronin's The Passage. Read 15 pages, and you will find yourself captivated; read 30 and you will find yourself taken prisoner and reading late into the night. It had the vividness that only epic works of fantasy and imagination can achieve.
"What else can I say? This: read this book and the ordinary world disappears."

Meet the Author

Born and raised in New England, JUSTIN CRONIN is the author of The Summer Guest — a Booksense national bestseller — and Mary and O'Neil, which won the PEN/Hemingway Award and the Stephen Crane Prize, both for best debut fiction of the year. Other honours for his writing include a Whiting Writer's Award, fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts and the Pew Foundation, the National Novella Award, and an Individual Artist's Fellowship from the Pennsylvania Council on the Arts. His short fiction, book reviews and essays have appeared in the Washington Post and the Boston Globe. He is a Professor of English at Rice University and lives with his family in Houston, Texas.

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The Passage The Collector's Edition) 3.4 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 12 reviews.
KrisPA More than 1 year ago
Much has been made of Stephen King's enthusiastic endorsement of this book, and that endorsement is probably what has single-handedly turned this mediocre, long-winded book into the "it" book of the summer. I couldn't wait to get my hands on this book, but before I could purchase it, a copy turned up at the library where I work so I snatched it immediately. The first 300 pages are extremely good & I really cared about the characters. The plot was intriguing and compelling. And then the book jumps about 100 years into the future and all momentum is lost. Amy, the mysterious girl, is MIA & you are introduced to the inhabitants of the Colony, a FEMA-established safe area. The author makes the mistake of having long passages of exposition, introducing new characters and their role in the society, along with social gossip, and I just don't care. The suspense is gone. My compulsive need to know what happens next is gone. Because the book completely lost all interest for me, I pretty much skimmed the remaining 400+ pages. It picked up a bit when Amy reappeared, but I was never fully engaged in the book or the fate of its characters again. I totally agree with the B&N review that the book went "flat" when it moved into the future. It did. A small group of characters are basically just wandering around & having run-ins with other groups of people & sometimes with the "ghosts," "jumpers," "virals," whatever name you like the most. The virals/semi-vamps are not all that scary. They just aren't. They are just barely interesting enough to be the "bad guys." The pseudo-religious overtones at the end are annoying because they don't make any sense & seem to me to be a cop-out for a better, more interesting explanation. I am amazed about the buzz surrounding this book--it doesn't deserve it. Stephen King's praise of this book is also surprising because this book in no way measures up to even one of his worst books, and never comes close to touching The Stand, which The Passage could be (if you try real hard) compared to. This book was extremely disappointing and I'm so glad I didn't spend a dime on it. I don't think I will bother reading the last two books in the series because I have a feeling it will be more of the same. If you want to read a genuinely scary, compelling virus/vamp novel, read The Strain by Guillermo del Toro and Chuck Hogan. Now that's how you do evil, scary vamps.
RabidReaderGrrl More than 1 year ago
After a really strong start, this book just turns into a dud. What a disappointment, now I know never to recommend a book until the end. The first part, dealing with the creation of the virus and the intial infection was really terrifying. Definitely hard to put down and the stuff of nightmares. Once the story moves into the future, it really just starts to drag on and on and on. The author gets down into the minute details of each and every character, even ones that are relatively short lived in the story. could have done with out it....seems like the author was shooting for his own version of The Stand. Wise old woman. check. Vivid dreams shared by a group of people. Check. Military created virus that escapes from military bunker to destroy the world. Check. A guy skilled in electronics/mechanic, check. Evil man who communes with evil entity. Check. Not sure I will read the next installments.
read2010 More than 1 year ago
I finished reading "The Passage" today. I too am very disappointed in the ending. Even if a sequel is planned, the writer should have included who survived, the humans or the virals. I don't know if he did not know how to end the book or thinks leaving everyone in the air as to what happened will make the readers want to buy further sequels. I purchased this as an ebook but will not buy any further sequels.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I too couldn't put this book down, then about halfway through I lost interest as others reviews have stated, and became confused-what the heck just happened to this sizzling engaging start? and put it down. It ran like a freight train in the beginning and I absolutely loved it and then as quickly it fizzled out. I kept picking it up to continue it hoping maybe I was just have a bad day or something, but apparently I am not alone, obviously it wasn't me. I was hoping, hoping I would be able to engage again but couldn't and it made me really really sad and frustrated. It has massive potential! and I was very disappointed. It felt like an entirely new book began halfway through and I didn't know what to do with it, lost me totally.
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Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Very good book and with so much going for it,I was very dissapointed in the ending.In my opinion it was not much of a ending at all, and I could not believe it ended so quickly and us the reader not knowing what happened to all the people we came to know and love. I find this very unsatisfying.My best hope ? A sequel ?
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