Today I am shedding some "lyte" on death. No, I am not blogging about the demise of Ted Kennedy. I am mourning the passing of one of my favorite authors, Dominick Dunne.
A tireless advocate for the victims of violent crime, Dunne was able to migrate from the homes of the rich and famous to the prison cells of those who were brought to justice. He relished in giving us ordinary humans a glimpse into the world of the jet set. But if one of the gilded class happened to murder someone, he was on them like a bloodhound on the scent.
His combination of access and a thirst for justice was due to his time spent as a TV and movie producer in Hollywood and the untimely murder of his daughter, Dominque. When her boyfriend was sentenced to a mere 3 years for her death, Dunne turned his talents to exposing the foibles and crimes of the haves to the delight of the have nots. His time spent battling addictions to alcohol and drugs gave him a sensitivity that other crime writers lacked.
Many of his novels dealt with real life crime stories couched in a fictional setting. This allowed Dunne to use his prodigious imagination to fill in the blanks that reality often leaves blank. His columns in "Vanity Fair" were a must read for me. He would fly around the world, traveling from parties to arraignments and would let us all in on the fun.
He had an uncanny knack of meeting the right person, with the right juicy tidbit, at the right time. And he never failed to share them with his readers. I love his show, "Power, Privledge, and Justice". It brings to television the same inside scoop that his columns had.
Happily, Dunne finished his final novel before succumbing to bladder cancer. It will be out in December. I am going to read it...slowly. No one will ever be able to give us the insider's view of the downfall of the powerful like his signature round frames.
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