Real History and the death of a Writer Alphabetical index (text) Few non-writers can realize how easy it is to fall foul of that literary sin; plagiarism, like the lazy cliché, is a pitfall that lurks around the corner for every long-term writer.
October 14, 2002 (Monday), London AN e-mail from Gary Redish , the unpalatable Jewish lawyer in New Jersey, who has been constantly sending me, for two years or more, offensive hate e-mails, then pleading with me not to post them as they result in hate mail for himself. He mentions that “your friend” Steven Ambrose ( picture below ) died early yesterday, Sunday; I am of course sorry to hear that. Ambrose, a chain smoker, died of lung cancer.
I spent an afternoon with him twenty-five years ago in Raleigh, when he was an unknown professor of history teaching at the University of North Carolina and I was writing on Dwight D Eisenhower , his primary subject, and I found him very congenial. He was a prolific writer who popularized history, knew how to write, and was very good television to watch. He had an easy style and delivered his pronunciamenti in a pleasing Southern brogue.
His final months, even as the open grave awaited him, were clouded over by bitter allegations of plagiarism from his touchy rivals and peers. Few non-writers can realize how easy it is to fall foul of that literary sin; plagiarism, like the lazy cliché, is a pitfall that lurks around the corner for every long-term writer.
Two years before, you laboriously copy down a passage from a work that attracts or inspires you for your own theme; two years later, you find that handwritten note, marvel at the prose you have written, read