Ruth Frankin turns an unforgiving eye on James Frey and ... well, here's the coda:
"Scandal, motherfuckers, everybody loves a scandal," Frey writes toward the end of the novel (it would imply too much intentionality to call it a conclusion). "Even if you try to turn away, you can't, when you try to ignore it, you find it impossible. You know why? Because it's awesome, hilarious, awful, it's a fucking mess, and it almost always makes you feel better about yourself." This aside to the reader, an obvious reference to the dust-up over A Million Little Pieces, seems intended to defuse any lingering doubts about Frey's latest career move. But the irony, of course, is that Frey's fiction is so bad it could almost constitute a brief in his defense. Maybe more of that memoir was true than we thought.