Somebody Stole My Rave!

Over the past few weeks I’ve  read a dozen rave reviews of Lawrence Block’s new Bernie Rhodenbarr mystery, THE BURGLAR WHO COUNTED THE SPOONS.

Well that’s fine and dandy, but what about my rave?—this rave—what the hell am I supposed to write when there’s nothing left to say that hasn’t been said already. (OK, that’s redundant.)  It would be easy if I could just  type “Love it!” —end of story. But no,  they’ve all said that.

Funny, witty, charming, LOL, beloved, tightly researched, delightful, lighthearted, comfortable, clever, madcap, amusing, etc. …   are out.

Same goes for a brief plot summary.

Do I dare  mention Barnegat Books or Raffles the cat?  Bernie’s lesbian sidekick Carolyn?

No way, the bloggers have all been there and done that and done it again.  I can’t even say I’ve missed Bernie  like “an old friend” (and believe me, I have) because—as it turns out—Bernie is everybody’s old friend. And  he doesn’t even have a freaking Facebook page.

I thought about searching my thesaurus for archaic praise, but once I stick my head in Roget it takes weeks to get it out and, by then, someone will have beaten me to the  punch bowl.

If I was still a hippie I could call the novel “groovy” and “far out” (which it is) but I’m not.

So forgive me, Larry, but I give up.  I’m throwing in the towel.

Besides, why should I have to share the private pleasure I derive from devouring a Bernie Rhodenbarr mystery?

It’s nobody’s business but mine.

bernie

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