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.