City of Lost Souls

City of Lost Souls - Cassandra Clare

What...the...heck, Cassandra Claire?

I can't do this anymore. I can't. Fallen Angels almost killed me, and that was before every single character in your cast decided to drop their oh-so-special lives and find boyfriends/girlfriends. Just what is it about these whiny, snotty, moronic people that's appealing enough for them ALL to be so "loved"?

Answer: their pretty faces. That's it.

If I have to read one more description about how gorgeous Jace is, or how breathless he makes Clary feel, I am going to be sick. If I have to read one more scene about Couple A, B, C, or D whining to each other or themselves about their relationship problems, I am also going to be sick.And if I have to read one more disgustingly graphic kissing session, I am going to...well, I don't put threats of violence in my reviews, so I'll let you imagine what I must be thinking. We'll say that I am incredibly revolted.

I don't even know why half the characters in these books are still alive. You would solve most of my problems by just killing them all off. I don't understand these puppets you put on your money-drenched stage. I don't get why every one of them needs to be romantically involved with somebody else. I can't comprehend why they all whine so much about their relationships...or if they do, why they have to do it where I can see it. I don't understand why they won't stop interrupting the book every other page with a pointless kissing session. Was there anything else even in the book?

I knew I was dead when I saw the cover. It promised me that not only would I drown in cheese for reading this, but I would drown in cheese that really, really wants to make mustard her boyfriend (you know how badly off you are when your refrigerator becomes a matchmaker).

Clare, you literally sound like you ate a dictionary and started vomiting up words at random. And yes, I am throwing your own words in your face. I don't even know where to start with your ridiculous similes and - dare I even call it purple prose? It was just as much of a waste of space, but purple prose is at least usually falsely poetic. There's nothing poetic or striking about the things I read in this book. On probably a hundred separate occasions (or more) I found myself staring in disbelief at what I was reading. I can't believe this stuff not only gets published, but ends up with an overall rating of more than 4.0.

People are beyond me. That they can enjoy reading this stinking pile of bile-soaked trash is beyond me. This book is about as charming as melted Valentine's Day hearts (see? SEE? That's the name of your villain! How threatening and intimidating it is) poured over a rancid chicken and churned up in the belly of a moldy blender. It's poison. I swear, I have fewer brain cells now than I did before setting eyes on this....thing.