BURNING DOWN MY MASTERS HOUSE: MY LIFE AT THE NEW YORK TIMES is probably the most difficult book I've ever had to read--not because of the subject matter, but because after literally every paragraph I fought the urge to book a flight to New York to kick Jayson Blair's ham-fisted ass up and down about nine blocks of brownstone. He has learned NOTHING from his experience at the New York Times, inadvertently painting an unflattering picture of a porcelain-ego'd, emotionally retarded coward who, despite his passable if unremarkably mediocre linguistic flair, was given the journalistic opportunity of a lifetime and responded by taking an ungrateful shit on everyone who backed him, and who astonishingly continued to support him even as the allegations accumulated. I closed the book with the same questions I had when I saw his self-righteous puss on the cover: Why did he manufacture quotes and lift descriptive passages wholesale from other writers' pieces (and if you ever read this book, you'll wonder if perhaps the most potent verbiage in his Times ouevre were, in fact, cribbed)? Why did he deceive an entire newsroom? What purpose did that serve? Why did he pretend to file stories from other states when in reality he was sitting in his Brooklyn apartment, surfing the Web or watching television? He offers no explanations. The promise of "I lied and I lied--and then I lied some more" is quickly undone by mountains of excuses and attacks. That sentence is about as candid as he gets.

Highlights:

--A newsroom stripling outraged that a veteran editor would dare disagree with him.

--A man who claims that because of his skin color, he had to work twice as hard and log twice as many hours as a white reporter to get noticed, but apparently his old-fashioned work ethic doesn't extend to--you know--WRITING HIS OWN SENTENCES AND DOING HIS OWN LEGWORK. In fact, there's a deliciously brilliant passage early on when he learns that a paragraph he's hijacked came from an AP story written by someone he actually knows. Jayson has the audacity in book form to express confusion when this woman speaks curtly to him on the phone.

--A man who claims a hardscrabble life growing up black in the white South (I've never been to the South, but I'm kinda sure there are some black people hiding around there somewhere, maybe even living in houses, paying taxes, and going to school), yet never cites a single personal incident during his childhood where his race came into play.

--A man bitching that he gets no respect upon his Times arrival, a man oblivious to the fact that there are hierarchies in newspapers. Editors are largely and legendarily oblivious to new faces; maybe they'll eventually notice you, but you gotta PROVE YOURSELF. CONSISTENTLY. Especially at that level. But dude fires daggers at anyone who isn't shoveling heaps of accolades onto his ego the second he enters their crosshairs.

--All the women in the book call him "honey" or "sweetheart" and cry every time he opens his mouth. Some even fuck him.

--He hints at sexual abuse. Never explains it, but he wears it like a badge and flashes it every so often when he feels the sympathy pendulum swinging away. He just throws it out there, like an explosive tossed by a man losing an argument.

--The most vivid paragraph in the book covers his attempt to hang himself with his belt in a coffeehouse bathroom. It literally resonates (or percolates) with narcissistic melodrama.

--He checks himself into a psychiatric ward for a few days, and HE LEARNS SO MUCH WOTTA SURVIVOR. Plus, all the patients admire him; one even says, "You have been so important to me."

--Which brings up his recollection of other people's quotes. In Jayson Blair's world, everyone speaks in the same stunted bursts and exposition, even when excited, like "Here's the deal. We are not sure what the hell caused this. KeySpan is at the scene over there checking to see if it was a problem with one of their lines. We got one dead, an older gay guy, and the elderly couple who owns the house is dead. The gay guy's lover, who also lived in the house, has been taken to the precint just so he can calm down, so everyone can make sure he is okay. ... The mayor's en route, and we are hoping to have some answers by the time he arrives. He's planning on touring the scene and giving a press conference at ten. ... I got to go, Jayson, but let's talk soon."

--Four years at a newspaper does not constitute a "life." May feel like it, but it's an insignificant period, a mere signpost, in a professional career.

At one point in this tale of fear and sniveling, he throws out the theory that there are reporters, and there are writers. They're two different beasts. I agree, and can only hope that Jayson realizes someday that he was decent at one, hopeless at another, and doesn't deserve another chance to be either.