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'It all reads like a movie scenario,' writes James P. O'Donnell at one point, as he recounts the lurid goings-on in Hitler's underground bunker in Berlin in 1945—the wish, no doubt, being father to the thought. The same verdict, unfortunately, applies to far too much recent writing about Nazi Germany. In part, I suppose, we must attribute this to the success of 'Holocaust,' and the prospect it holds out of another golden jackpot for another lucky author. But I suspect the trouble reaches further back—to Walter Langer and his progeny of psychohistorians.[1] Once historians began prying into Hitler's sex life and alleged sexual aberrations, anything was permissible, provided it was sordid, scurrilous, and scandalous enough.
Review, 4454 words
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