William writes: "Breslin's biography on Rothko is a terrific book and perhaps one of the best biographies of its kind. It certainly set off a wave of similar books, none of which match it in my opinion."
I've read only a small bit of the Breslin biography of Rothko, but it was enough to excite a startled editorial reaction. The writing style is so rich and relaxed, such a combination of sophistication and shirtsleeve, and so comfortably familiar with New York City, that it took me some time to realize that the author, James E.B. Breslin, was not the great New York journalist and book-author Jimmy Breslin. The likeness of voice is truly remarkable, and the comparison to the great Jimmy's is meant as a compliment to James E.B.. However, for all Jimmy Breslin's extraordinary lateral motion, I don't think he could have matched James E.B.'s command of the needed content in a Rothko bio. (Digression: James E.B died at 60 in 1996, three years after his book on Rothko was published. He began that book in 1984. Jimmy Breslin, born in 1930, five years before E.B., is still with us. In fact he lives just a few blocks up the street from me on Central Park West. We even belong to the same Reebok gym. But I'm not aware of ever having set eyes on him. That's understandable given our different lifestyles: Jimmy rises at 6:00 a.m. and goes to the gym to swim. I've never in my life been in a gym before mid-afternoon. And I've never swum in the Reebok pool. In New York, two people's living in the same neighborhood does not imply they are, in the sense from my childhood in New England, "neighbors". )
