The great Otto Penzler takes notice of the latest Paul Christopher novel in today's NEW YORK SUN:
There is something disconcerting, even embarrassing, about having so much affection for an author that writing about him becomes too great a challenge. Words of praise become inadequate, almost juvenile, in their failed attempts to adequately describe the brilliance of a given work, somewhat like trying to explain the love one feels in a perfect marriage, or at the birth of a first child. This fear of losing all critical faculties strikes like an arrow in the heart whenever I'm confronted with a new work by America's greatest espionage writer, Charles McCarry. It is no good thing to be seen as obsequious or awed when writing about a book, but there is no credit in finding flaws in an object of rare beauty, either. While it is indeed possible that there is no such thing as a perfect creation by the mind and hands of man, a scarce few works of art come closer than others, and Mr. McCarry has approached that ideal on a number of occasions, bringing joy and understanding to those fortunate enough to have encountered his novels.
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