By Dan Brown, author of The Da Vinci Code
I AM no ordinary writer. I know everything, from the unknown Illuminati history of the United States to the lost DNA codes of Atlantis hidden in Shakespeare’s grave.
Not, of course, that the man buried in Stratford-upon-Avon churchyard was the real Shakespeare.
But I choose to publish these amazing secrets in mass-market thrillers with gold letters on the cover for one reason: to ensure they never fall into the hands of anyone but the functionally literate.
If the ‘intellectuals’ who read more than two books a year – the one on holiday and the one at Christmas – got hold of my fantastic knowledge, they could connect the dots and bring down the world.
So in order to share my fabulous treasure trove of cryptohistory with normal people, I conceal it behind lengthy passages about how brilliant a widely-respected academic is at playing squash.
Thus I share the secret chronicle of the world with professional footballers, manicurists, security guards and the women who work in minicab offices, all under the noses of the metropolitan elite who believe they run our lives.
Much as Leonardo Da Vinci hid the truth about Christ in plain sight in his paintings, I hide the truth in plain sight on the book shelves in supermarkets and airports, there all the time if anyone only bothered to look.
And I know my ‘readers’ will never give away my cunning subterfuge, because they are, by and large, not very good at explaining things.
My secrets are safe with them.