For the first forty-five years of my life, I only ever read fiction, unless non-fiction was part of a school assignment or, later, part of writing research I was doing. But then, in my forty-fifth year of life, for reasons I don't remember, my friend Tim and I decided it was time we tried Robert Caro.

We were initially dubious that we would have the stamina or stomach to read all the volumes of the LBJ biography, so we asked around and were told that Volume 3 was The One, so we figured we'd read that and then call it a day. Except that Volume 3 was so compelling and addictive that we then wanted to read Volume 1, because who doesn't love an origin story, and then we just kept going, because at this point we were regaling our friends with crazy LBJ factoids on a regular basis and were hungry for more more more.

But all good things must come to an end, and unless and until Caro is able to write the 5th and final (?) volume before he croaks, there is no more LBJ to be had. And so, it was on to Robert Moses, whom Caro chronicled first, and who got him hooked on writing about power to begin with.

But here's the thing: Caro's writing is just as compelling in The Powerbroker, but his subject isn't. While LBJ was a fascinating and complex and divided man, Robert Moses was just a flat-out asshole. Once RM loses his youthful idealism and starts pursuing power for power's sake, the litany of urban atrocities he commits in power's name becomes, well, kinda monotonous. So at this point, I'm skimming through the rest of his bad old days until I reach the point where he starts getting his comeuppance, which I intend to read slowly and with a big snarky smile on my face.