He exhibits little more than an appetite for collecting persons and places and a penchant for transforming both into unedifying chit-chat. Soon after it has taken us past his unhappy childhood, his report dwindles into a log-book. There were not many visitors that summer. Susan Sontag put in a brief appearance. Only enough materialization occurs to earn a place in the index.
Nobody cares, the take implies, whether innocent or guilty men lose their lives.
Either event is equally arbitrary and devoid of benefit. Justice, which might be taken to mitigate this fact, only makes it more glaring. But because his subsequent books contain no new insight and seem merely assertive in their bleakness, Bowles soon was branded a sensationalist. Of this form of opportunism, the author now stands absolved.