Some read a new memoir and were moved to cook. I read the first few chapters and smelled Seabiscuit excreta. Even having swallowed “Running With Scissors,” I have a hard time believing anyone, even the most obsessive keeper of journals, can reconstruct a life in such microscopic detail, down to the most idle conversation. Then again, maybe I just didn’t read far enough to learn the author had friends in FISA places. It worked in “Lives of Others.”