No politician has inspired more psychobiographies than Richard Nixon, whose strange personality and dramatic downfall certainly invite speculation into his mental makeup. This, though, is exactly kind of crude, faux-Freudian garbage that gives that subgenre a bad name. Everything in Nixon's life, career and personality is reduced to his sex drives: his striving for success due to his affection for his mother; his affection towards his dead brothers somehow indicative of incestuous attraction towards them; his tale of hearing the Whittier train a phallic hallucination; his paranoia and emotional constipation the result of not masturbating enough as a child. This is practically a caricature of psychoanalysis, offering more insight into its overbearing author than its subject. Compared to this book, Fawn Brodie's wilder speculations in Richard Nixon: The Shaping of His Character seem like the rock of truth.