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Was that the book that made the Vatican tremble? This detective story builds like a TV movie where a handsome guy and a girl strive to solve a schoolboy's riddles to discover the scandalous secret that everyone already knows. The fact that Jesus was a man, that he fucked Mary Magdalene and impregnated her (why not?), and that he was not God's son. Dan Brown was ignoring, in a novel that uses and abuses the notion of mystery, the mystery of the identity of Christ, true God, and true man.
Let's move on. The Da Vinci Code is nothing more than a new version of Indiana Jones, in the American style, with the initial murder, the police error, the (so little) incredible escape of the heroes, the betrayal of the good guy becoming Machiavellian, the hidden microphones, two or three deaths lying around, the reunion of the lost grandmother and brother and the final kiss, prudish, without the slightest trace of eroticism. Yet, simultaneously, the whole book applies itself to magnify the Sacred Feminine.
How, then, to understand the dazzling success of this novel? Let's face it: I let myself take. This feeling of collaborating in the truth's discovery upsets the world's order by deciphering anagrams. This satisfaction of feeling oneself the discoverer as if the solution of a sodoku could collapse an entire civilization. At this little game, the end of the book can only disappoint. Nothing. This scum. Virgo worms. That's to designate only the cup, the chalice, and the Holy Grail. The real mystery is undoubtedly there: by what miracle can a little detective story of nothing become a world affair? Revealing this secret seems much more complicated than Dan Brown's treasure hunt.