The dark specter of the private mind has often pervaded Nick Tosches' writing, as in his critically acclaimed biographies on Dean Martin (Dino) and Jerry Lee Lewis (Hellfire). Recently, however, the focal psyche examined by the author has been his own, as he scrutinizes and disparages at the behest of his various moods. His novel In the Hand of Dante confronts the writing racket. The Last Opium Den grieves the passing of old ways.
With King of the Jews, Tosches, a bit honked off that he can no longer light up in his favorite bars, has finally detonated a literary bomb over the whole of Western civilization, from the "confectionery lies called history" to contemporary culture's "mall of mortuary mediocrity." The text alleges to be a biography on Arnold Rothstein, yet history has buried the legendary gambler in a swathe of secrecy that even Tosches' exhaustive research fails to breach. Instead the author uses Rothstein as a window through which we can peer irreverently upon the hollow husk of history, "the snake-oil pitchman's forgery of yore" that becomes "inspirational gospel." While he shatters one Rothstein myth after another, he manages to dispense plenty of other snippets upon the reader with savage eloquence, theorizing, for instance, that early Hebraism was polytheistic, and comparing former Mayor Giuliani to the Nazis.
What saves this text from being a self-indulgent fit is that most of the author's arguments are compelling and persuasive, and apparently connected. At least for Tosches, who also undertakes a textually self-aware examination that begs such questions as "why am I writing this, and why are you reading it?" This is a thriving mausoleum of a biography; essentially dead as regards Rothstein's story, yet intricate and forebodingly poetic in its contemplation of everything else.