John Gregory Dunne's masterly account of his season of breakdown, Vegas, proves that emotional deadness, if intended and built into the style, can paradoxically turn up the narrative juice. Vegas is far closer to reportage and autobiography than to fiction, and the reportage is notably clear-eyed and perceptive. In the discount hell of losers and grifters—with steady infusions of meaty suckers with pinky rings and nametags—which is Las Vegas, Dunne chose to ride out his crack-up, just drifting through and taking notes. The book is bitter and touching at once, utterly compulsive reading. The dialogue is from the bottom of the world, spoken by people who hustle by reflex and have passed caring that the hustle is all they've got….

Dunne's knowingness, his ability to intuit values coldly from the meanest elements of behaviour, make him the most valuable of guides through this weird flatland.

Peter...