"Writing," observed the French playwright Moliere, "is like prostitution. First you do it for love, then for a few close friends, and then for money." This aphorism is brought forcefully to mind by the cover of Ann Coulter's latest book, leering at customers from the windows of America's biggest bookstores. As always, the cover features a portrait of the artist as a young tart, blond locks flowing, her size zero little black dress catering to a combination of ideological and erotic perversion that's disturbing to contemplate. In The New York Times, David Carr doesn't hesitate to label Coulter a literary...
