Forgive me, then, if for once I confess to torpor, even accidie. We talk, I fear, of, no, not how much longer the Prime Minister can hang on, but, yes, The Da Vinci Code, beguiler of millions, begetter of millions, star of the courts, infuriator of cardinals, endangerer of pale people, especially if they're monks, tribute to the intrigue of intrigue, on a bedside table, in a departure lounge, and at a cinema near you very soon, or sooner if you're in Cannes next week.
Some will detect envy of a man who wrote this mega-seller, if not standing on his head, then at least hanging upside down for long periods; to which my response is that they're absolutely right (I also gave no chance whatsoever to a book about punctuation).
Nevertheless, I find it difficult to share the outrage of a religion which has survived any number of heresies for 2,000 years, and, as someone else has pointed out, numbers among its beliefs and traditions walking on the water, bringing the dead back to life, and feeding 5,000 people with five loaves and two fishes.
Again, I know it's probably me, but repetition has fatally dulled the attraction of its theories, particularly that God is French. And, meanwhile, we've got a year to wait for the BBC's Little Dorrit.
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