Many thanks to Michael Wolff for his non-defense defense of his book about Rupert Murdoch against my review of it on The Daily Beast. I pointed out as many errors, inanities, and outbursts of implausible mind-reading as I could fit into a 900-word piece, in approximate order of their absurdity, and effectively declassified the book as a work of nonfiction. The usual recourse of writers caught in the dissemination of such pelagic incontinences of drivel as Wolff is to pretend to ignore the review. As I hoped and expected, he could not do that and responded without a word of demurral or argument on the merits.
Instead, this syntactically challenged, scatologically obsessed myth-maker swaddled himself in Victorian bourgeois priggishness and wrote that the fact that I am a convicted criminal (proudly) serving my (unjust) sentence in a US prison deprives me of any right to criticize him. Further, I am mad “in squalor [and] constantly mocked;" am illustrative of the worthlessness of the Internet (his chosen medium of reply), and have formed a triangle of Internet evil with Tina Brown and Eliot Spitzer.
Read the whole thing. I have to admire Black's toughness these days. He's rising above his situation.
