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ALL GOOD BOOKS AREdifferent but all bad books are exactly the same。 I know this to be a fact because in my line of work I read a lot of bad books—books so bad they aren’t even published； which is quite a feat； when you consider what is published。
And what they all have in common； these bad books； be they novels or memoirs； is this： they don’t ring true。 I’m not saying that a good bookis true necessarily； just that itfeels true for the time you’re reading it。 A publishing friend of mine calls it the seaplane test； after a movie he once saw about people in the City of London that opened with the hero arriving for work in a seaplane he landed on the Thames。 From then on； my friend said； there was no point in watching。
Adam Lang’s memoir failed the seaplane test。
It wasn’t that the facts in it were wrong—I wasn’t in a position to judge at that stage—it was rather that the whole book somehow felt false； as if there was a hollow at its center。 It consisted of sixteen chapters； arranged chronologically： “Early Years；” “Into Politics；” “Challenge for the Leadership；” “Changing the Party；” “Victory at the Polls；” “Reforming Government；” “Northern Ireland；” “Europe；” “The Special Relationship；” “Second Term；” “The Challenge of Terror；” “The War on Terror；” “Sticking the Course；” “Never Surrender；” “Time to Go；” and “A Future of Hope。” Each chapter was between ten and twenty thousand words long and hadn’t been written so much as cobbled together from speeches； official minutes； communiqués； memoranda； interview transcripts； office diaries； party manifestos； and newspaper articles。 Occasionally； Lang permitted himself a private emotion（“I was overjoyed when our third child was born”） or a personal observation（“the American president was much taller than I had expected”） or a sharp remark（“as foreign secretary； Richard Rycart often seemed to prefer presenting the foreigners’ case to Britain rather than the other way round”） but not very often； and not to any great effect。 And where was his wife？ She was barely mentioned。
“A crock of shit；” Rick had called it。 But actually this was worse。 Shit； to quote Gore Vidal； has its own integrity。 This was a crock of nothing。 It was strictly accurate and yet overall it was a lie—it had to be； I thought。 No human being could pass through life and feel so little。 Especially Adam Lang； whose political stock…in…trade was emotional empathy。 I skipped ahead to the chapter called “The War on Terror。” If there was going to be anything to interest American readers it must surely be here。 I skimmed it； searching for words like “rendition；” “torture；” “CIA。” I found nothing； and certainly no mention of Operation Tempest。 What about the war in the Middle East？ Surely some mild criticism here of the U。S。 president； or the defense secretary； or the secretary of state； some hint of betrayal or letdown； some behind…the…scenes scoop or previously classified document？ No。 Nowhere。 Nothing。 I took a gulp； literally and metaphorically； and began reading again from the top。
At some point the secretary； Alice； must have brought me in a tuna sandwich and a bottle of mineral water； because later in the afternoon I noticed them at the end of the desk。 But I was too busy to stop； and besides I wasn’t hungry。 In fact； I was beginning to feel nauseous as I shuffled those sixteen chapters； scanning the sheer white cliff face of featureless prose for any tiny handhold of interest I could cling to。 No wonder McAra had thrown himself off the Martha’s Vineyard ferry。 No wonder Maddox and Kroll had flown to London to try to rescue the project。 No wonder they were paying me fifty thousand dollars a week。 All these seemingly bizarre events were rendered entirely logical by the direness of the manuscript。 And now it would bemy reputation that would come spiraling down； strapped into the backseat of Adam Lang’s kamikaze seaplane。 I would be the one pointed out at publishing parties—assuming I was ever invited to another publishing party—as the ghost who had collaborated on the biggest flop in publishing history。 In a sudden shaft of paranoid insight； I fancied I saw my real role in the operation： designated fall guy。
I finished the last of the six hundred and twenty…one pages（“Ruth and I look forward to the future； whatever it may hold”） in midafternoon； and when I laid down the manuscript I pressed my hands to my cheeks and opened my mouth and eyes wide； in a reasonable imitation of Edvard Munch’s The Scream。
That was when I heard a cough in the doorway and looked up to see Ruth Lang watching me。 To this day I don’t know how long she’d been there。 She raised a thin black eyebrow。
“As bad as that？” she said。
SHE WAS WEARING Aman’s thick； shapeless white sweater； so long in the sleeves that only her chewed fingernails were visible； and once we got downstairs she pulled on top of this a pale blue hooded windbreaker； disappearing for a while as she tugged it over her head； her pale face emerging at last with a frown。 Her short dark hair stuck up in Medusa…like spikes。
It was she who had proposed a walk。 She said I looked as though I needed one； which was true enough。 She found me her husband’s windproof jacket； which fitted perfectly； and a pair of waterproof boots belonging to the house； and together we stepped out into the blustery Atlantic air。 We followed the path around the edge of the lawn and climbed up onto the dunes。 To our right was the pond； with a jetty； and next to that a rowboat that had been hauled above the reed beds and laid upside down。 To our left was the gray ocean。 Ahead of us； bare white sand stretched for a couple of miles； and when I looked behind； the picture was the same； except that a policeman in an overcoat was following about fifty yards distant。
“You must get sick of this；” I said； nodding to our escort。
“It’s been going on so long I’ve stopped noticing。”
We pressed on into the wind。 Close up； the beach didn’t look so idyllic。 Strange pieces of broken plastic； lumps of tar； a dark blue canvas shoe stiff with salt； a wooden cable drum； dead birds； skeletons； and bits of bone—it was like walking along the side of a six…lane highway。 The big waves came in with a roar and receded like passing trucks。
“So；” said Ruth； “how bad is it？”
“You haven’t read it？”
“Not all of it。”
“Well；” I said； politely； “it needs some work。”
“How much？”
The words “Hiroshima” and “nineteen forty…five” floated briefly into my mind。 “It’s fixable；” I said； which I suppose it was： even Hiroshima was fixed eventually。 “It’s the deadline that’s the trouble。 We absolutely have to do it in four weeks； and that’s less than two days for each chapter。”
“Four weeks！” She had a deep； rather dirty laugh。 “You’ll never get him to sit still for as long as that！”
“He doesn’t have to write it； as such。 That’s what I’m being paid for。 He just has to talk to me。”
She had pulled up her hood。 I couldn’t see her face； only the sharp white tip of her nose was visible。 Everyone said she