Possibly you’ve heard that Barbra Streisand has just published a memoir, My Name Is Barbra. As befits a star so prodigiously gifted with talent, determination, and personality, it’s 992 pages long.
The reviews have ranged from positive (“There is a lot to love in it [for everyone but Mandy Patinkin and some others]” —The Washington Post) to less so (“an avalanche of minutiae.... There may be gold there, but readers will have to pan diligently” —The Wall Street Journal). And tucked inside Alexandra Jacobs’s assessment in The New York Times was a veritable cry for help: “This book, which is adorned with more boldface names than there were sequins on the Arnold Scaasi pantsuit she wore to the Oscars in 1969, has no index. You kind of want to resurrect Spy magazine to make one, as it did for The Andy Warhol Diaries.”
