I read an autobiography recently where a reasonably famous person told a story about a completely private person. This story added spice to the narrative—it involved betrayal, sordid choices, and a dab of misogyny—although it was also, in the end, a rather typical relationship drama. Nothing unexpected in the contest of how humans treat humans. Nothing beyond the usual I probably shouldn’t have used those words that occurs, at least sometimes, in every life. Yet this story was included, almost gratuitously, in the autobiography, the person without a public profile described in sleazy, loathsome detail by the person with a public profile.
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