From the NYTBR: Sartre and star fever, side by side: this was Mr. Sheldon at his risible but lovable high-low best. He was both literate and lurid, and he made that combination hard to resist. He achieved his effects by using a secret weapon: his nostalgic appreciation of Thomas Wolfe, Sinclair Lewis, Ernest Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald and their storytelling skills. Thus equipped, and endlessly interested in the rich, powerful and tragic, he brought class to trash. And he did it with consistent professionalism, turning himself into a legitimate brand name. If that sounds like no great accomplishment, think about how rarely an author does it right.
Bonus: the commentary includes a Paris Hilton slam. Will the persecution never end?
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