The Vampire Lestat by Anne Rice. My birthday book. Published in October of 1985, only few days difference between the book and my birth, but I outgrew it, my teenage self no longer finding the sustenance it needs. Guilt wracks my body for giving up, for not finishing, but life is short. If it was eons and eons long, I would not read it either, not wanting to waste my precious moments with it. I loved it in the past, amazed by her brilliant writing and lush descriptions. Ten years if not more has passed and my love has faded away. Should I feel guilty for not finishing the first three novels? I had hoped that I would be proven wrong and would like it, but alas, nay.
The book bored me to tears, every page a struggle to get through, the shining beginning dimming to a stale middle and a worse ending (if I recall right.) I will not read it anymore, nor will I touch The Queen of the Damned. I no longer care or desire Anne Rice, for she fell the way Danielle Steel fell.
Adieu my beloved vampires of the heart; the broody and boring Louis de Pointe du Lac who would put Edward Cullen to shame; the irrepressible and fun Lestat De Loincourt...oops, I mean Lestat De Lioncourt, the Brat Prince who couldn't be more interesting than Louis and so forth.