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The bumpy journey toward the conclusion of Hannibal is often exciting. At the top of his form, Harris is the class of the current field of thriller writers, ladling out authentic-sounding information on such arcana as weapons ("Yes, I'll have that Harpy, please, and a straight serrated Spyderco with a four-inch blade, and that drop-point skinner at the back") and Swiss bank accounts ("Article 47 of the Bundesgesetz uber Banken und Sparkassen"), plus sharp thumbnail portraits of the major players and malefactors and incessant plot surprises.
But Hannibal displays a disquieting streak of sadism that Harris' two previous novels involving Lecter largely avoided. In one of his many, rather portentous authorial asides, Harris states, "Now that ceaseless exposure has calloused us to the lewd and the vulgar, it is instructive to see what still seems wicked to us. What still slaps the clammy flab of our submissive consciousness hard enough to get our attention?" If Hannibal is the answer, we're in real trouble.