There is always something new to learn in biography, and in my 40 years in the field, I have made some crashing mistakes. The problem is that one only tends to realize how badly one has misjudged a person when it’s already too late.
As an example, there is the best-selling biography I wrote in 1998 about Stephen Sondheim. Those were the days when publishers—in my case, Alfred A. Knopf—sent successful authors across the country from east to west, ending in San Francisco. There I was met at the airport by an enormous pink limousine, replete with all the comforts of home—cushions, telephones, newspapers, magazines, and its own miniature refrigerator containing Dom Pérignon and ice cubes.
