Peter F. Hamilton is a steak dinner, with sides, and a big helping of desert. He probably comes with an after dinner espresso too. He makes you feel like a bloated carcass when you push away from the table and stumble out of the restaurant, your top button straining to stay in place. He makes you feel like an elbow to the gut will result in the carnage of the last two hours of debauchery emptying into the gutter. He doesn’t just give you a story and move on, he gives you all the stories and then a few more. He’s delicious.
This sounds like a precursor to an episode of The Walking Dead. It’s actually an entry point in discussing his most recent novel, The Abyss Beyond Dreams, which aspires to be just as addictively bloating as his previous work. Unfortunately, it’s more like a tapas experience full of disparate tastes that won’t quite leave you satisfied.