Walter Isaacson is the exotic bird of American letters, a charming and convivial bon vivant and raconteur, the life of many a dinner party, a studious biographer and a generous mentor. He blurbed both of my books, a kindness he’s bestowed on many authors, and he has been nothing but kind and gracious to me over the years.
Unfortunately, these admirable and lovely attributes go a long way to explaining what Isaacson has become with his 670-page groaner on the life and times of Elon Musk: an elegant stenographer.
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