Happy fifty third birthday, Doctor. Welcome to the first day of your death. Dr. Frederick Starks, a New York psychoanalyst, has just received a. Sat, 29 Jan GMT the analyst john katzenbach pdf - Free download or read online. The Analyst pdf (ePUB) book. The first edition of this novel was. the analyst by john katzenbach - farhanrehman - if searching for the ebook by john katzenbach the analyst in pdf format, then you have come on to faithful site.
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Happy fifty third birthday, Doctor. Welcome to the first day of your death. Dr. Frederick Starks, a New York psychoanalyst, has just received a mysterious. Автор: Katzenbach John, Книга: The Analyst. in crisis sufficiently to throw such an unexpected change in the relationship between analyst and analysand. Editorial Reviews. lesforgesdessalles.info Review. Penzler Pick, February This thriller from the author of Hart's War is addictive. Analyst Dr. Frederick Starks has just.
He stayed seated for another minute, reluctant to leave his familiar seat, managing to force himself upward only by recognizing that pursuing some sort of light was the only reasonable response. Ricky Starks slammed the door to his apartment shut behind him, the noise resounding in his ears, and echoing away through the dimly lit empty building corridor. In an instant, the satisfaction Ricky had felt outmaneuvering Rumplestiltskin once, fled. He had immense trust in his ability to precisely remember words and phrases uttered beside him that might lurk profitably over the month hiatus. The return address was from the New York Psychoanalytic Society, an organization that he was a longtime member of, but had had precious little to do with over the years. To ask other readers questions about The Analyst , please sign up. A door was propped open and two men were struggling with a desk, lifting and angling it through the doorway, as a middle-aged woman in jeans, running shoes, and designer T-shirt watched them carefully.
It was, equally, an impossible idea. He thought: Sitting back hard in his chair, Ricky realized he was at a critical moment. It is about time, and there was none available. His glance caught the calendar Virgil had provided him. The fourteen days remaining seemed an impossibly brief time. For a second, he thought of a death row prisoner, told that the governor had signed his death warrant, specifying date, time, and place of execution. This was a crushing image, and he turned away from it, telling himself that even in a prison, men fought hard for life.
Ricky breathed in fiercely. The calendar on his desk seemed to mock him. A clue from a psychopath. Look at it closely! The father left. Sail could be either literal or symbolic, but in either case, the father left the family.
Whatever the causes of the abandonment, Rumplestiltskin must have harbored his resentment for years. It had to be further fueled by the mother, who was left behind.
He had played some part in the creation of a rage that had taken years to turn murderous. But which part? Rumplestiltskin, he believed in that moment, was the child of a patient. The question was, what sort of patient? An unhappy and unsuccessful patient, obviously. But which direction did the patient occupy: Had he failed in his treatment of the woman cut adrift, or had he been the impetus for the man to run out on his family?
He thought this was a little bit like the Japanese film Rashomon , where the same event is examined from diametrically different positions, with wildly disparate interpretations. Regardless, Ricky thought the time frame would necessarily have happened between twenty and twenty-five years earlier, because Rumplestiltskin had to grow into the adult of means necessary to plan the elaborate details of the game.
How long, Ricky wondered, does it take to create a murderer? Ten years?
Twenty years? A single instant? A feeling not precisely of confidence hit him, but one of ability. What he failed to see was that he had been adrift in the real, grime-streaked world of Detective Riggins, overmatched and out of place, and that once he was functioning back within the world he knew, the world of emotion and action defined by psychology, he was comfortable.
Zimmerman, an unhappy man who needed much help that was too slow in coming, faded from his thoughts and at the same time Ricky did not make the second realization, the one that might have stopped him cold: An analyst is not like the surgeon, who can look at the heart monitor attached to his patient and recognize success or failure from the blips on a screen.
Measurements are far more subjective. Ricky was back at the creation of a list. He discovered that it was relatively easy, as he went year by year, to come up with the names of the long-term patients, the ones who had engaged in traditional analyses. Those names jumped out, and he was pleased that he was able to recall faces, voices, and more than a few details about their situations. In some cases, he could recall the names of spouses, parents, children, where they worked and where they grew up, in addition to his clinical diagnosis and assessment of their problems.
Rumplestiltskin would be the child of someone whose connection had been more tenuous. Someone who left treatment abruptly. Someone who had quit coming to his office after only a few sessions. He sat at his desk, a legal pad of paper in front of him, free-associating, month by month right through his past, trying to picture people from a quarter century earlier.
This was the psychoanalytic equivalent of heavy lifting; names, faces, problems came back slowly to him. Ricky was approaching the dilemma in the only way he knew how. The list he was creating grew haphazardly. A person staring in at Ricky would have seen him bent over slightly in his chair, pen in hand, like some blocked poet searching for an impossible rhyme to a word like granite.
The sound seemed to rip him from reverie. He straightened up abruptly, feeling the muscles in his back tighten and his throat suddenly grow dry. He rose and crossed his office, crossed the waiting room and cautiously approached the door he so rarely locked. On the other side was a young man wearing a sweat-stained blue Federal Express shirt, clutching an envelope and an electronic clipboard in his hand. He looked mildly irritated and seemed about to turn away, when Ricky unlocked the door.
He only loosened the dead bolts, however, leaving the chain fastened. The deliveryman offered him the clipboard and pointed at the twenty-second line down. Ricky signed. The deliveryman checked the signature, then ran an electronic tabulator across a bar code.
The machine beeped twice. Ricky had no idea what that was about. Then the deliveryman handed him the small cardboard one-day express envelope. Ricky paused in the doorway, staring down at the label on the envelope. The return address was from the New York Psychoanalytic Society, an organization that he was a longtime member of, but had had precious little to do with over the years.
He stepped back into his waiting room, locking the doors behind him, wondering why the society had written to him at this point. He suspected that close to a hundred percent of the society was taking off on August vacations anyway. Like so many aspects of the process, in the psychoanalytic world, the summer month was sacred.
Ricky found the tab and pulled open the cardboard envelope. His name was typed on the envelope, and along the bottom there was a single line: He opened the envelope and withdrew two sheets of paper.
The first bore the masthead of the society. He could not recall ever conversing with the man, other than perhaps a handshake and forgettable pleasantry. It is my unfortunate duty to inform you that the Psychoanalytic Society is in receipt of a significant complaint concerning your relationship with a former patient. I have enclosed a copy of the complaining letter.
You should be hearing from personnel in that office in the very near future. I would urge you to obtain competent legal counsel at your earliest convenience. I am optimistic that we will be able to keep the nature of this complaint out of the news media, as allegations such as these throw our entire profession into disrepute.
Ricky barely glanced at the signature, as he turned to the second sheet of paper. It read:. More than six years ago, I entered into a course of psychoanalytic treatment with Dr. Frederick Starks, a member of your organization. Some three months into a four-times-weekly series of sessions, he began to ask me what might be considered inappropriate questions. These were always about my sexual relations with the various partners I had leading up to and including a failed marriage.
I assumed that these inquiries were a part of the analytic process. However, as the sessions continued, he kept demanding more and more explicit details of my sex life. The tone of these questions became increasingly pornographic. Every time I tried to change the subject matter, he invariably forced it back, always increasing the quality and quantity of description.
I complained, but he countered that the root of my depression resided in my failure to fully give myself in sexual encounters. It was shortly after that suggestion that he raped me for the first time.
He told me that unless I submitted, I would never feel better about myself. Having sex during therapy sessions became a requirement for continued treatment. He was insatiable. After six months, he told me that my treatment was at an end, and that there was nothing he could do for me.
He said I was so repressed that a course of drugs and hospitalization was probably required. He forced me to have anal sex with him the day he ended our sessions. It has taken me several years to recover from my relationship with Dr. During this time, I have been hospitalized three times, each time for more than six months. I bear the scars of two failed suicide attempts.
It is only with the constant help of a caring therapist that I have begun the process of healing. This letter to your organization is a part of that process. For the time being, I feel I must remain anonymous, although Dr. Starks will know who I am.
The letter was unsigned, but contained the name of a lawyer with a midtown address, and a psychiatrist with a suburban Boston listing. He was dizzy, and slumped against a wall of his apartment to steady himself. He felt like a prizefighter who has absorbed a pummeling-disoriented, in pain, ready to drop to the canvas when the bell leaves him utterly defeated, but still standing.
He looked down at the lies on the page in front of him and felt a great contradiction within him. His spirits plummeted, his heart was cold with despair of his own, as if some tenacity had been sucked out of him, and at the same moment, replaced with a rage that was so far distant from his normal character that it was almost unrecognizable.
His hands started to quiver, his face flushed red, and a thin line of sweat broke out on his forehead. He could feel the same heat growing at the back of his neck, in his armpits, and down his throat.
He turned away from the letters, raising his eyes, looking around for something he could seize hold of and break, but he could find nothing readily available, which angered him even more. Ricky paced back and forth across his office for a few moments. It was as if his entire body had acquired a nervous twitch. Finally, he flung himself down into his old leather chair, behind the head of the couch, and let the familiar creakings of the upholstery and the sensation of the polished fabric beneath his palms calm him, if only a little.
He had absolutely no doubt who had concocted the complaint against him. The false anonymity of the phony victim guaranteed that. The more important question, he recognized, was determining why. There was an agenda, he understood, and he needed to isolate and identify what it was. Ricky kept a telephone on the floor next to his chair and he reached down and seized it.
Within seconds he acquired the office number for the head of the Psychoanalytic Society from directory assistance. Refusing their electronic offer to dial the number for him, he furiously punched the numbers into the receiver, then leaned back, waiting for a response.
The telephone was answered by the vaguely familiar voice of his fellow analyst. But it had the tinny, emotionless, and flat quality belonging to a recording.
You have reached the office of Doctor Martin Roth. I will be out of my office from August first to the twenty-ninth. If this is an emergency, please dial , which will connect you with a service capable of reaching me while on vacation.
You may also dial and speak with Doctor Albert Michaels at Columbia Presbyterian Hospital, who is covering for me this month. If you feel this is a true crisis, please call both numbers and Doctor Michaels and I will both get back to you. Ricky disconnected the recording and dialed the first of the two emergency numbers. He knew the second number was for a second- or third-year psychiatric resident at the hospital.
The residents covered for the established physicians during vacation times, providing an outlet where prescriptions superseded the talk that was the mainstay of the analytic treatment plan. The woman paused, more surprised than confused.
It was difficult to conceal the coolness in his own voice. Not help it. People with small minds and vacant imaginations fill them with schedules and procedures. People of character know when to ignore protocol. Are you that sort of person, miss? It is a complete and total fantasy. Got that. You want me to call him with that message?
This message will assuredly make his far more interesting. She seemed undaunted by his threat. We have clear-cut and defined procedures. Then he hung up the telephone. He leaned back in his seat. It, too, was against his nature. But then he recognized that he was likely to have to go against his nature in many ways over the next few days. He returned his eyes to the cover letter from Dr. Roth and then read through the anonymous complaint a second time.
Still inwardly battling with the outrage and indignation of the falsely accused, he tried to measure the impact of the letters and return to an answer to the question Why?
He thought Rumplestiltskin clearly had in mind some specific effect, but what was it? The complaint itself was far more subtle than one would first think, Ricky realized. The anonymous letter writer cried rape! No real police detectives need be involved. Instead, it would trigger a cumbersome, ham-handed inquiry by the State Board of Medical Ethics. This would be slow, inefficient, and unlikely to get in the way of the game clock running.
And, by making the complaint provocative, yet anonymous, the letter writer maintained distance. No one from the Psychoanalytic Society would call to follow up. They would hand it over, just as they had apparently done, to a third agency, washing their hands as quickly as possible to avoid what might be a real stench. For a moment, Ricky leaned back, staring at the ceiling, as if the flat white above him reflected somehow with clarity. He spoke to no one, his voice seeming to echo a little in the office space, the sound almost hollow.
He wants me to play him without even the slightest bit of assistance. He almost smiled at the modestly diabolical nature of what Rumplestiltskin had done. He knew that Ricky was unsettled and uncertain, probably a little panicky and in shock at the rapid-fire series of events that had taken place.
And where would Ricky have likely been willing to turn for help? He would have wanted to talk-not act-because that was the nature of his profession, and he would have turned to another analyst. A friend who could function as a sounding board. Someone who could hem and haw and listen to each detail and help Ricky sort through the wealth of things that had happened so rapidly.
The complaint with its allegations of rape, including the gratuitous and ugly last portrait of the final session, was sent to everyone in the hierarchy of the Psychoanalytic Society right as they all prepared to depart on their August vacations. There was no time to forcibly deny the charge, no ready forum in which to do so effectively. The nasty nature of the charge would race through the New York analytic world like gossip at some grand Hollywood opening.
Ricky was a man with many colleagues and few real friends, this he knew. And these colleagues were unlikely to want to be tainted by contact with a doctor who had violated arguably the single greatest taboo of the profession. With this allegation hanging over his head, no one was likely to step forward to help Ricky, no matter how hard he pleaded, no matter how hard he denied the charge, until it was resolved. And that would take months. There was another, secondary effect: It created a situation where people who thought they knew Ricky, now would wonder what they knew and how they knew it.
It was a wondrous lie, he thought, because the mere fact that he denied it would make people in his profession think he was covering up. Ricky inhaled sharply, as if the air in his office had grown cold.
He realized that was what he wanted. Again he looked at the two letters. In the fake complaint the anonymous writer had included the names of a Manhattan lawyer and a Boston therapist. Those names were installed for me. He thought of the frightening darkness in his office the night before. All he had to do was follow the simple path and plug in what had been disconnected to shed light into the room.
He suspected this was more or less the same. He found he had the most trouble remembering exactly what the woman Virgil had said, which was disconcerting. He had no difficulty recalling the shape of her figure or the slyness in her voice, but found that her beauty was like a protective covering over her words. This troubled him, because it went against his training and his habit, and, like any good analyst, he pondered why he was so incapable of focus, when the truth was so obvious that any routinely charged teenage boy could have told him.
He was accumulating notes and observations, seeking refuge in the world he was comfortable within. But, the following morning, after he had dressed in a suit and tie, and then had taken the time to draw an X through another day in the calendar, he once again started to feel the pressure of time weighing on the situation. He thought that it was important for him to at least come up with his first question, and call the Times to place the question in an ad.
The morning heat seemed to mock him, and he steamed inside his suit almost immediately. He assumed he was being followed, but once again refused to turn and look.
In the movies, he thought, it was always so easy for the hero to detect the forces of evil arrayed against him. The bad guys wore the black hats and the furtive look in their eyes. In real life, he recognized, it is far different. Everyone is suspicious. Everyone is preoccupied. The man on the corner delivering items to a grocery deli, the businessman pacing rapidly down the sidewalk, the homeless man in the alcove, the faces behind the glass windows of the restaurant, or a passing car.
Anyone could be watching him or not. It was impossible for him to tell. Out on the street, it was impossible for him to tell who might be playing the game and watching him, and who was just one of the other eight million or so beings who abruptly populated his world. Ricky shrugged and hailed a cab at the corner. The cabbie had an unpronounceable foreign name, and was listening to an odd, Middle Eastern music station. A woman vocalist was keening in a high-pitched voice that wavered as the tempo changed.
When a new tune came on, only the pace changed, the warbling vocals seemed to be the same. The cabbie grunted when Ricky gave him the address, and sped off into traffic rapidly.
There was no way for the man behind the plastic partition to tell whether he was carrying fares to some momentous event in their life, or merely another passing minute. The cabbie punched his horn once or twice at an intersection, and drove him through the congested streets without comment. Three or four burly men were moving in and out of the front doors of the modest, nondescript office building, carrying brown cardboard boxes and the occasional piece of furniture, desk chairs, sofas, and the like and walking carefully up a steel ramp into the truck to load them.
A man in a blue blazer with a security badge stood to the side, keeping watch on the progress the movers made, eyeing passersby with a wariness that spoke loudly of a man with a single purpose for his presence and a rigidity that would see that purpose met. Ricky exited the cab, which sped off as soon as he slammed the door, and approached the man in the blazer. Pretty busy up there with the move and all. The blazer man gestured. The elevator hummed, but thankfully no Muzak played.
A door was propped open and two men were struggling with a desk, lifting and angling it through the doorway, as a middle-aged woman in jeans, running shoes, and designer T-shirt watched them carefully. The two movers paused, scowling. The desk slid through the door with millimeters to spare. Ricky looked past the men and saw boxes piled in the interior corridor, empty bookcases, and tables, all the items one ordinarily associated with a busy office out of place and collected for the move.
From within the office there was a thudding sound and some cursing.
The woman in jeans threw back her head, shaking a wild mane of auburn hair with obvious irritation. She had the look of a woman who appreciated organization and the temporary chaos of the move was almost painful for her. Ricky walked up quickly. The woman turned quickly. Moving day. Merlin and I have something to discuss. Is he here? The woman briefly looked surprised, then smiled unpleasantly, nodding her head. Merlin was expecting a visit quite so quickly. The woman paused as another mover emerged carrying a lamp in one hand and a box of books under another arm.
Carry too much, something just gets broken. Put one of those down and come back for it next time. It seemed to Ricky that the woman was about to dismiss him, when a younger man, in his early thirties, slightly overweight and slightly balding, wearing pressed khaki slacks, an expensive designer sport shirt, and highly polished, tasseled loafers, emerged from the back of the office.
It was a most curious appearance, because he was overdressed for lifting and carrying, underdressed for conducting business. The clothes he wore were ostentatious and expensive, and stated that appearance, even in genuinely informal circumstances, was somehow governed by stiff rules. Most of the furniture is still there, although for how much longer is an open question.
Ricky was ushered into a room dominated by a long cherry-wood table and chairs. There was an end table at the rear of the room with a coffee machine and a jug with glasses.
The attorney pointed toward a seat, then went and inspected the machine. Shrugging, he turned to Ricky. This response made the lawyer smile. Again the lawyer grinned. We are frequently asked by clients to pull the proverbial rabbit out of a top hat. But, on the other hand, I have been singularly successful at forcing reluctant and recalcitrant opposition rabbits to emerge from places of concealment in all sorts of hats, relying, of course, less on magical powers than on a torrent of legal papers and a blizzard of legal demands.
Perhaps in this world, these things amount to the same.
Certain lawsuits seem to function in much the same way that curses and spells did for my namesake. The attorney reached down and extracted a small, crafted-leather card case from a pocket. He removed a card and handed it across the table to Ricky. Hiring new associates.
Need room to stretch. Merlin nodded, grinning not unpleasantly. And then get this thing settled swiftly and profitably for all involved.
The lawyer shook his head. Made up. Not a word of truth. Your real client is someone else, true? The attorney paused. Merlin looked a bit confused. X , R , whatever. And, trust me, you want this problem to disappear from your horizon just as quickly as humanly possible. If I have to file suit, well, then the damage will be done. All the evil things will just come flying out. Everything will become a part of some public record.
Allegations and denials, although, in my experience, the denial never manages to have quite the same impact as the allegation, does it? I do not believe this person even exists. I have no record of such a patient.
None, whatsoever. How about jealous colleagues? Do you think any of your patients over the years have been less than pleased with their treatment? Have you ever kicked a dog? Maybe failed to brake when a squirrel ran out in front of your car up there at your vacation house on Cape Cod?
Twelve acres. Purchased from a middle-aged woman whose husband had just died back in Sort of took advantage of the bereaved in that transaction, huh, doc?
Do you have any idea how the value of that property has increased? Let me suggest to you, Doctor Starks, one thing and one thing only. I think I can subdivide and make a killing. What do you think, doc? Merlin shrugged again. You rather foolishly believe that this has something to do with being right or wrong. Telling the truth rather than lying. I find this intriguing, coming from a veteran psychoanalyst such as yourself.
Is the truth, in some wondrously authentic and clear-cut fashion, something that you hear often? Or are truths hidden, concealed, and covered up with all sorts of curious psychological baggage, elusive and slippery once identified? And never exactly black or white, either. More like shades of gray, brown, and even red. Ricky felt foolish. He took a deep breath, thinking he was stupid to have come to the office, and the smart course was to get out rapidly.
He was about to rise, when Merlin added:. But what he recalled was what Virgil had said in their first meeting, when she told him that she was to be his guide to Hell, and that was where her name came from. The lawyer smiled. They truly believed in demons, devils, possession by evil spirits, what have you. They could smell fire and brimstone awaiting the less than pious, thought that burning pits and eternal tortures were not unreasonable outcomes for poorly led lives.
So, what do we have instead? And trust me on this, doc, I can quite easily turn your life into something resembling a medieval picture etched by one of those nightmare artists. What you want is to take the easy way out, doc. The easy way. Better check that insurance policy again. The door to the conference room swung open right then, and two of the moving men hesitated before entering. Ricky, too, stood. He nodded. Ricky did not reply, although he noted that he had not mentioned his vacation plans to the lawyer.
He simply nodded, then turned and exited the office, not looking back for a second. Ricky slid into a cab and told the driver to take him to the Plaza Hotel. This was barely a dozen blocks away. For what Ricky had in mind, it seemed the best selection. The cab lurched forward, racing through midtown in that unique manner that city cabs have, accelerating quickly, surging, braking, shifting, slaloming through traffic, making no better and no worse time than a steady, contained, direct path would have.
Just as if it had been waiting for him. Ricky jammed some money through the Plexiglas partition, and exited the cab. He ignored the doorman, and jumped up the stairs and through the revolving hotel doors.
The lobby was milling with guests, and he rapidly threaded his way through several parties and tour groups, dodging piles of luggage and scurrying bellhops. He launched himself to The Palm Court. On the far side of the restaurant, he paused, stared at a menu for a moment, then ducked down, hunching over slightly and headed for the corridor, moving at as quick a pace as he could muster without drawing undue attention, more like a man late for a train.
He went directly to the Central Park South exit of the hotel, stepping through the doors, back onto the street. There was a doorman flagging cabs for guests as they emerged. Ricky stepped past one family gathered at the curb. A mousy wife stood to the side, mother-henning the entire brood. As he suspected, the moving van was no longer parked out front. The security guard in his blue blazer had disappeared as well. It took a quarter hour to battle through traffic. It reeked of prestige.
He looked up and down the street, but saw no sign of the attorney, nor the company, nor the office furniture. He double-checked the address on the card, making certain that he had it correct, then looked into the building and saw there was a security desk just inside the front door.
A single uniformed guard, reading a paperback novel, had taken up a position behind a bank of video monitors and an electronic board that showed the elevator operations. Ricky stepped into the building and first approached an office directory printed on the wall. He quickly checked and found no listing for anyone named Merlin. Ricky walked over to the guard, who looked up as he came forward. He should be moving in today. The guard checked the card, frowned, and shook his head. Ricky was still feeling slightly smug as he arrived at his own building.
This was a distinct possibility, Ricky thought, because he was certain that the man at the core of the situation would want to see Ricky himself, face-to-face. It was difficult to imagine someone gaining pleasure from tormenting him, without that person wanting to get a firsthand opportunity to see his handiwork. Not much, he answered quietly to himself. What he knew about were the troubles and neuroses of the mildly to significantly crippled.
He knew about the lies well-to-do people told themselves to justify their behavior. Ricky understood that this was uncharted territory for him. In an instant, the satisfaction Ricky had felt outmaneuvering Rumplestiltskin once, fled. Look Inside. Feb 04, Pages Buy. Jan 29, Pages Buy. Feb 04, Pages. Jan 29, Pages. Happy fifty third birthday, Doctor. Welcome to the first day of your death.
Frederick Starks, a New York psychoanalyst, has just received a mysterious, threatening letter. Now he finds himself in the middle of a horrific game designed by a man who calls himself Rumplestiltskin. The rules: If Starks succeeds, he goes free. If he fails, Rumplestiltskin will destroy, one by one, fifty-two of Dr. He must find a way to stop the madman—before he himself is driven mad. Happy 53rd birthday, Doctor. When a mysterious letter bearing these threatening words is delivered to Dr.
Frederick Starks, his predictable life is thrown into chaos. Una trama envolvente, sobre todo a partir de la segunda parte, y con un final absolutamente satisfactorio, el cual, aunque no es predecible View 1 comment.
Este es mi tercera lectura, y sin duda una de las mejores. Este libro es como un laberinto: Imprevisible, entretenido, emocionante en muchas partes, y sorprendente en otras.
O para suicidarte, mejor dicho. Comenzamos con una historia algo perturbadora. El libro se divide en tres partes. La primera pasa sin pena ni gloria. Y la tercera parte mi favorita fue sin duda lo mejor de todo el libro. Hasta los malos poetas aman la muerte. Pero es mucho peor que nos destruyan. View all 3 comments. PopSugar Buen libro de suspenso para leer en un viaje. No tiene mucho valor literario, pero para entretenerte es perfecto.
View all 19 comments. La primera parte es insufrible. En la segunda parte mejora un poco, al tener un giro que hace que te identifiques un poquito con el protagonista. Aun asi, pasan algunas cosas que te hacen preguntar: Este libro no lo recomiendo para nada. Tengo un prejuicio contra John Katzenbach: Un Grisham reciente tiene 17, y u Tengo un prejuicio contra John Katzenbach: La gran pregunta es: Yo creo que no.
Persona que sufre una venganza se recupera y se dedica a vengarse. Tan tan. Sin embargo, el libro no reprueba porque hace su trabajo que es entretener y manipular al lector muy bien.
Pero eso lo hace hasta Dan Brown. No, no, no. Me agrado mucho desde el punto de vista que es una novela que se plantea de manera muy inteligente. Es cierto que en general he visto que todas las novelas de este autor siguen una estructura similar: En la primera parte del libro sume y hace participe al Me agrado mucho desde el punto de vista que es una novela que se plantea de manera muy inteligente.
View all 6 comments. Es un excelente libro en el mejor estilo de Katzenbach te mantiene en suspenso, pero al mismo tiempo te da todos los detalles que necesitas para ir descubriendo quien ha enviado la carta amenazadora, sin embargo no deja de sorprender con giros inesperados.
Jan 19, Michelle Cano rated it liked it. Decepcionante, la verdad. View all 13 comments. Oct 16, Ana M. I never heard of this author prior reading this novel but it was a birthday present and the premise looked really interesting: The only way to stop Rumpelstiltskin from killing is to win the game or that the doctor commits suicide.
It was a great read. The book is fast paced with lots of mysteries and nice plot twists that kept me reading non stop, towards the half it slows down a little bit but luckily Katzenbach quickly picks up the frantic rhythm of the first chapters reaching a very good ending. Even though I sort of figured out who Rumpelstiltskin was before finishing, it didn't stopped me from enjoying this book because what really interested me was to know if the doctor could survive this wicked game.
Another thing I really liked is how the author describes the psyche of the different characters and the deeper implications of the game planned by Rumpelstiltskin, also the villain was great because of his determination to destroy doctor Starks's life. With this kind of books I always have the concern that the ending can be stupid or far fetched, fortunately this wasn't the case.
Without being a mind-blowing ending at least for me I found it to be satisfactory and it wrapped up the book perfectly. So, if you're looking for a fast and exciting psychological thriller this book can be good for you. I breezed through the second half desperate to know how the story would end and it didn't disappoint me. I'll definitely read more books by this author in the future.
View all 7 comments. De los mejores libros del mundo, debes leerlo sin dudas. Es relectura y guardaba muy buen recuerdo de esta novela. Y al releerla he sentido lo mismo. Mar 03, Ryan rated it liked it. Why the hell did I read this again? No clue. Wait, now I remember - for the same reason anyone else did. I was at an airport and wanted to read something less tiresome than the usual newspapers and magazines.
Before I finished the first sentence, I expected to leave this novel behind on the plane with the plastic headphones and Sky Mall catalog, never to be seen again. Yet Katzenbach won me over and I found myself not only enjoying the story but trying to cast the movie this novel is so clearly Why the hell did I read this again? Yet Katzenbach won me over and I found myself not only enjoying the story but trying to cast the movie this novel is so clearly asking to become.
I figured out the identity of the bad guy easily enough but it did not prevent me from giving this a full and attentive read. Highly recommended for anyone who wants to write genre suspense novels. Tengo pendiente de leer "Jaque al psicoanalista", que espero que este a la altura de su gran primera parte. Tememos que nos maten. Sin embargo, es un libro muy bueno.