And after all the brushes with death, that our heroes went home and promptly reproduced like rabbits seems psychologically persuasive and wholly in character.
but of course...
Ahh well, money changes everything. Compromising a story for the sake of a theme park is the difference between a work of art and just popular entertainment. If what you say is true then I can never consider Rowling a literary genius.
I was about to say marketing genius and in a "litterary" sort of way....If two kittens are good then ten are better....
Check out this pretty funny reading diary of New York book critic Sam Anderson's experience with the book. He brings up a good point about how absurd it is that Ron so easily learns Parseltongue.
New York’ Book Critic Sam Anderson's ‘Deathly Hallows’ Reading Diary
Saturday, 6:02 p.m. Page 434. I smell terrible and am eating peanut butter directly out of the jar and fighting off another nap. Reading this novel apparently creates the same symptoms as major depression and agoraphobia.
This is how I read
Saturday, 6:50 p.m. Page 460. I'm getting woozy from the overplotting. Rowling has cranked the "coincidence" dial up to eleven and is now flagrantly abusing her "imminent-death-thwarted-at-the-last-possible-moment" privileges. Harry has just been saved from certain doom, 007-style, by his captors' greedy bickering. Then he's thrown in a dungeon that also happens to contain most of his long-lost friends. As a reader, my interest in the plot has been reduced to two main questions: (1) Does Snape turn out to be good? and (2) Does Harry live or die? I officially don't care about the links that get us there. Roughly five hours of reading to go before I can be reunited with my family.
Die Harry Die....
Sunday, 3:40 p.m. Page 610. Voldemort delivers a menacing speech using high-school valedictorian rhetoric: "Give me Harry Potter, and none shall be harmed. Give me Harry Potter, and I shall leave the school untouched. Give me Harry Potter, and you will be rewarded."
This reminds me of The Incredible's when Syndrome is monologuing....very funny...
Sunday, 4:22 p.m. Page 625. Two inexcusable things happen very quickly. First, Ron skips back with an armful of basilisk fangs from the Chamber of Secrets, which he says he got into by faking Parseltongue. You know, Parseltongue: the horrifying snake-language hitherto spoken exclusively by Harry and Voldemort and serpents — a talent so rare that Harry was ostracized when people found out about it. Ron says he just imitated the noises he heard Harry make. Now, excuse my righteous Potter-dork anger here, but this is absurd — if this were possible, dark wizards and mischievous Hogwarts students would have been faking it for centuries, raising all kinds of snake-related hell. It's a totally B.S. plot shortcut that needs to go on Rowling's permanent record.
Proof this is just for fun and profit
Sunday, 6:38 p.m. Page 738. And here's the cop-out. Harry Potter is actually Jesus Christ. It turns out that, because of the purity of his sacrifice, he doesn't actually have to die — he gets to go back and kill Voldemort. And just as a bonus, his sacrifice has redeemed humanity. As he tells Voldemort: "You won't be able to kill any of them ever again. Don't you get it? I was ready to die to stop you from hurting these people … I've done what my mother did. They're protected from you." Some would argue that the Bible is shorter and better.
Well it is imaginative at least...not....
Sunday, 6:55 p.m. Page 744. Harry and Voldemort circle each other like the knife fighters in "Beat It." Then Harry's wand-gush overpowers the Dark Lord's wand-gush: "Voldemort was dead, killed by his own rebounding curse, and Harry stood with two wands in his hand, staring down at his dead enemy's shell."
Sunday, 7:15 p.m. Page 759. After its brief flirtation with tragedy, the book ends with a disappointing (to me) epilogue full of har-har family-sitcom humor, in which the 36-year-old Harry and the gang, all blissfully intermarried, drop off the next generation of wizards at Platform 9 3/4. It ends with a really bland and terrible last sentence.
I close the book, forever, on Sunday evening at 7:22. —Sam Anderson