I often worry (mostly because I worry about everything, as those who know me can attest to) that I write too many positive reviews. Unlike a professional critic, I purposely pick books that I believe I will like, therefore, my reviews will generally be raves. But, I can worry less now, because Noah Charney’s The Art Thief was a really bad book.
Three seemingly unrelated art thefts occur, one in Rome, the next in Paris, and the last in London. Each case is undertaken by a different detective, and slowly it is seen that the robberies are not quite independent after all. Interesting premise right? I hoped…
Charney’s characters are pathetic and one-dimensional. I think he just wants to show us he can talk in French and Italian. So I spent much of the book frustrated with, what I could only assume was, the author trying to show us how witty he is. I could just picture him writing this, all smug and laughing to himself about his cleverness. (Is this too mean?) I just wanted him to speak in English, and make the characters more memorable. Often, I found myself looking back and wondering “now who is this again?” and “what city are we in now”? And often I just kept reading, because I didn’t really care. If you want to read about thieves, read The Book Thief, not The Art Thief, cause apparently the art isn’t worth stealing.