Rather than taking the form of a straight up (ghostwritten) memoir, this book is a series of conversations between the author and his subject, half of them about the very writing of the book itself. Gardner (then in her ‘60s, suffering from ill health and feeling very obsolete and sad) vacillates between ribald honesty and anxious second-guessing, making for an often-frustrating reading experience. It’s not until the end of the book that it’s revealed that the intended project fell apart (reportedly because Sinatra disapproved of the collaborator), and the author pitched the idea for THIS book after Gardner had died, only to succumb to a heart attack himself before finishing it.
I guess if I’d known precisely when Gardner “started pushing clouds” (1990), I’d have wondered why this book took so long to come out, and maybe gleaned its origin, but I plead ignorance. I think the whole thing would’ve been much better served by not burying the lede at the end of the whole shebang, but your mileage may vary.
There’s also way too much fretting over asking Gardner about Frank’s penis size. But hey, what book doesn’t feature that?
Originally posted on social media, March 10, 2023
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