I was excited to re-read this autobiography when I saw it pop up on the NYT Reading Room discussion board. My excitement for the book began to wane as I forced myself through hundreds of pages of self-absorbed whiny drivel. While I did shoot off one comment into the blog-discussion-ether, I didn’t feel I had enough days left in my life to dedicate any more time to the hundreds of pages left. Mr. Adams hides behind his pen, does not give us any real sense of himself, and merely capitalizes on his family connections by parlaying blood ties into a book. This book is billed as a great account of a man moving from the 19th to 20th centuries, but my 21st century eyes are too tired to care about his minor triumphs in the diplomatic arts while his friends and cousins were being slaughtered in the Civil War.
And it is on that single straw that I put this down.