If the author Nick Tosches had limited this book to his dismemberment of the mass-produced and marketed mediocrities that pass for good books today, it alone would have been worth the price of the book. He thunders about the consolidation of book publishers in to what is an oligopoly, comments on the same status of the retailers of books, and mercilessly flays authors that routinely occupy the top of the bestseller lists. My favorite part of his varied condemnations is when he directs his spotlight on those persons who have placed their name upon book clubs, and by choosing a book guaranty its financial success. Some I am sure will find his characterizations vulgar and overly vicious. I found them to be dead on accurate. The entire phenomenon of a celebrity with absolutely no credibility for commenting on a book doing so, and thus placing the book immediately on the top of countless reader's lists of books they must read, is and always has been pathetic. When one hostess of a talk show recently withdrew after stating she could no longer find books that were worthy of a recommendation, she confirmed two facts. The first was that she had no business ever suggesting anything to anyone, and secondly, when her most recently anointed author stated he did not want her name on his book, her towering ego shattered.
Nick Tosches is qualified to trash the homogenization of commercial publishing and the garbage it prints, for unlike those who make a living criticizing that which they cannot begin to replicate, this man can and does so with ease. He moves from thrashing an industry and its products to writing with style and competence that is all but gone, buried by a dozen or so authors who are guaranteed to sell a pile of books regardless of the quality of writing. He includes a letter that he wrote to his agent/publisher that is as blistering an indictment of fools that I have read.
Once the book moves to the story of Dante struggling with what would be his masterpiece appearance where there is no substance, just ugliness.
Those who pick up this work hoping for a race around the globe with stolen manuscripts and characters of the shadiest demeanor will be sorely disappointed. This is a wonderfully detailed book of the exploration of truth in the pursuit of knowledge, and eventually of writing. The rants, and disgusting human beings that are described outside of this central tale, are wonderful, and at times vile. If as the jacket of the book suggests, as a reader you might be offended, there is little in this book you will not hear leaching from cars in suburbia, thumping mindlessly while spewing the most egregious filth. This, "music", is again what has been deemed popular, but unlike this man's book that you may choose to read, the former is not an option unless you choose the life of a hermit., the author demands a great deal of his readers. He does not make the reading easy, nor does he hold the reader's hand with word for word translations of a variety of languages. This is most appropriate, for were he have taken the opposite tack, he would have been guilty of another fault of mediocre writers, using language they barely understand, and rarely even translate. Language is used as makeup, improving the