Finished Jeff Lindsay's much-praised serial killer parody Darkly Dreaming Dexter last night. I wasn't wildly excited. I wasn't excited at all. I spent two days without reading a page, which isn't a very good result for a thriller.
It seems impossible to write a serial killer parody without reverting in the end to the old clichés about the killer genius who manages to escape everytime and who has all the childhood traumas that manifest themselves in the sexual lust that leads to killing. Lindsay does nothing to crash this supposition and while the book was mildly entertaining at times, it did nothing for me.
(Once again I remind you of Buñuel's film in which the hero dreams of killing several people, but someone kills them or they die accidentally before he gets on with the killing.)