This is part of the continuing series of random book reviews that'll be nothing like a New York Times book review. Gone is the ten thousand word analysis. Instead, here is a book review like you'd tell your friends.
The book: Charles Dickens's Bleak House
So let me get this straight, Chuck.
You're writing a perfectly dull story that involves the English Chancery court system--an everyday slice of boring life--and halfway through a thousand page novel, because you were bored with your own story perhaps, you have a character spontaneously combust.
Dead.
Again--and this can't be emphasized enough--by spontaneous combustion.
And then you continue on with the novel as if human spontaneous combustion is an everyday occurrence, much like dust allergens or abundant flatulence.
Answer me this, Chuck: How much opium were you on?
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