Gore Vidal is a slick novelist, impressive essayist, and perfect bitch. All three of these skills come in handy in his memoir, Palimpsest. The gossip in it is rivetingly indiscreet; the nonfiction writing—as in descriptions of places and people he was indifferent to— evocative and entertaining; and the fiction —as in accounts of himself—smooth to the point of slipperiness. Palimpsest is, apparently, a collaboration. A picture at the beginning shows Vidal with a white cat crouching on his shoulder. The caption reads, “The memoirist in 1992. I am about to start writing this book in Ravello, aided by the white cat.” And indeed, reversing the formula, he got the cat’s tongue. A dubious proposition as a memoir, Palimpsest is awesome as a catty gossip column.

There are, to be sure, many ways to write a memoir—almost as many, I should think, as there are to skin, or collaborate with, a cat. But as there are also many ways to review a memoir, let me lay my cards on the table. I have had my innings with Gore Vidal, as who in this trade hasn’t? I will relate three incidents for the readers’ consideration.

David Susskind once decided that, in the wake of televised confrontations between Vidal and others, it was time for his going mano a manowith me on an entire “Open End”—the David Susskind show, which could go on for hours. Having had me on before, Susskind called me again to ask if