Writing about Edwards after the birth of their baby, she gushes, “Johnny’s feelings about me had changed quite a bit since I became the mother of his child. His respect for my strength and fortitude, for all I had been through alone, deepened his love for me.” If only there wasn’t that dying cancer patient of a wife of his getting in the way.
Re-reading Hunter’s book, I found myself wondering if her original vitriolic take on Elizabeth Edwards would soften, if the woman’s tragic death might lead her to portray her as something other than the scheming succubus she comes off as in the original text.
Rielle Hunter was eviscerated on The View yesterday as the gabfest panel, in particular Whoopi Goldberg, went nuclear on John Edwards' mistress."In your book, you trash a dead lady," Goldberg stated, referring to Rielle Hunter's new tell-all book, in which she bashes Elizabeth Edwards often.
It is not rare for someone to write a book that lands the wrongest way imaginable.
It is decided that Andrew Young, Edwards’ pathologically loyal aide, will pose as the father of Hunter’s baby.
Through it all though, Hunter and Edwards continue to share the greatest love ever known.
But even given the once-in-a-lifetime chance to spin her previous words more positively and recant past mistaken beliefs, Hunter instead decides to double down on all the qualities that made society hate her in the first place: the toxic narcissism, the Harlequin-style details of her wine and comfort-fueled affair with her beloved Johnny, the sniping bitterly at the press in ways that mainly reflect poorly on her, and, more than anything, the denigration of the memory of Elizabeth Edwards.
I have never encountered a book that uses “sorry” and “regret” so often yet is so thoroughly devoid of genuine regret and remorse. She’s sorry, first and foremost to John — or “Johnny,” as she irritatingly refers to him — for not letting him read and veto the book before it was released.
It’s not unusual for a quickie tell-all to make its creator look not just unsympathetic but deluded and psychotic. Which may be due to the shift, perhaps my age, perhaps all the coke I snorted in the eighties. Perhaps the wool hat on my head is too tight, perhaps the altitude is too high or the dog is barking too loud.
But to my knowledge there are far fewer examples of books so reviled that their creator felt the need to release a revised edition where they apologize profusely and extensively in new, revised text added to the earlier confession. Snipers.“ The memories of my past, the story of ‘me’, are patchy at best. In fact, I used to credit myself with having a memory like a steel trap. My point is: Shit happens, and there could be a billion reasons why.