Michelle Goldberg calls Olivia Nuzzi's book "a grandiose postmodern pastiche that attempts to situate her personal catastrophe in the context of our collective one."

"Interspersed with Nuzzi’s stream-of-consciousness musings are facts about drone strikes, gun deaths and wild fires; long chunks of Q&A dialogue, including with Donald Trump; a court document detailing the assault on Nancy Pelosi’s husband; an F.B.I. report on the man who wrote the children’s book 'Harold and the Purple Crayon'; and quotes from figures including Friedrich Nietzsche, Carl Jung and Jane Birkin. It’s a pretentious mess, but an audacious one. It seems less an attempt to justify herself to the Beltway world she once inhabited than to catapult over it, into the more congenial realms of art and literary celebrity."

Here's the whole column: "A Serious Journalism Scandal Hiding Inside a Frivolous Sexual One."

I read the excerpt from Nuzzi's book when Vanity Fair published it a couple weeks ago, and I too made fun of the florid, pretentious writing. But "grandiose postmodern pastiche" — in the New York Times — makes me feel a twinge of empathy. What if Nuzzi is genuinely literary? What she did is perhaps what I would have done in the same circumstances — tossed out of my ongoing career with nothing but raw material, raw emotion, a publisher's advance enough to cover living expenses, and whatever true writing gift I could find inside myself. They thought I was a journalist, that I would write a fast-moving, funny, fact-filled account of my interaction with RFK Jr., but they don't know, they don't know what I am....

Here's the book, "American Canto" (commission earned).