A mystery is anything someone wonders at. A secret is a knowable mystery, generally assumed to be known to someone. Seeking Whom He May Devour ended up falling into an unhappy middle ground, a place comprised of equal parts ignorance and indifference. I didn't really know what was going on until the very end. And I didn't care. So there was none of the insight I'd expect from literature, nor any of the catchy visceral interactive hooks I'd expect from standard mystery novels. Just some exquisite artistry, directionless and alone in that space between any places it could have been properly appreciated.
I read Wash This Blood Clean from My Hand, in the hopes that the previous book had been a fluke, or ruined for me by some moodiness of my own. Nope. The mystery here was a bit more involving, and the plot more interesting, but it came at the expense of the intimate portraits that I fell for in the early stages of my romance with Devour. And in the end, it still wasn't all that gripping.
A pity. And as with any infatuation that flames out as suddenly as it flared up, I can't help but feel that somehow my disenchantment reflects a failing in me. For a moment, what might have been effectively was, and it's better to shelve that memory than to tear the pages apart in despair that the "might have" could never truly have been. Time to move on and lose myself in the safety of the first math textbook to catch my eye; take comfort in the familiarity and stability of equations. Still... *sigh*