Lately, I've looked at the NYTimes Bestseller List with dismay. The books aren't just bad, they're bogus, usually, canned autobiography ghost-written by some ink-stained wretch, or something read into a tape recorder by a right- or left-winger columnist or television celebrity without correction or proofreading. (or grammar or syntax.)
Well, a closed mind is no good, so I had a try at Father Joe, by Tony Hendra. It has a dynamite opening, telling about his seduction by a married woman, but goes downhill from there. Hendra wrote it, all right; no ghost writer could be so egotistical. It's all about him and his spiritual quest—his desire to be a monk, his lapses of faith, etc. Not to mention every other achievement of his egocentric life. He also gets in a few snipes at people he doesn't like, among them P. J. O'Rourke.
The aforementioned Father Joe seems like a sweet old man who sees the best in everyone. Hendra, in contrast, is a smug, sanctimonious PC sort of judgmental left-wing dingbat who dismisses his own sins all too readily, but can point out those of, for instance, those who dropped the bomb on Hiroshima, waged the Cold War, etc. ad nauseam.
It should have been titled My Life, by Tony Hendra.
Article comments