It was an article on Dr Donald Brash, former Reserve Bank Governor, who, as political party leader, led National triumphantly out of the polling wilderness, and, but for a last-minute glitch, almost into Government.
There he was baring his badly bruised soul in the Sunday Star-Times.
And by the end of this finely-judged piece, whatever your political persuasions, you could not help feeling for this extremely talented and capable man who has served his country well over many years, but who came quite badly unstuck in the unforgiving cauldron of national politics.
Like Icarus, he flew too close to the sun, got scorched, and crashed and burned.
Pictured in a rented Auckland apartment, on a blue leather sofa in a room bereft of any personal belongings, he looked sad and lonely.
He sounded even worse. But there was also a sense that, in his coruscating honesty, he is at least on a path to recovery.
He told journalist Ruth Laugesen an anecdote in which an old Labour Party minister had strongly advised him against entering politics.
The minister had told him that "when you start out, you've got all these principles. And in the political process, you have to hide some of them.
"So you put them in a box, like roses, and when you open the box, they're dead."
Dr Brash killed a lot of his roses, including his radical but politically unsaleable positions on tax and welfarism.
Another notable one bit the dust when he failed to stand up in the National caucus and speak out against the party backing the US invasion of Iraq. That, he said, is something of which he still feels "deeply ashamed".
Ironically, it was an issue which, had he articulated his convictions and held the day, may have inched National ahead in 2005. His story is that of a man of deep conviction whose views were tamed and repackaged by the political party machine so that in the end he stood for something he wasn't.
And in negotiating the gulf between the two, he stumbled and fell.
There are echoes of this in Nicky Hager's book The Hollow Men, the publication of which brought about, or at least hastened, Dr Brash's demise.
It's ironic because one of Dr Brash's strengths was his openness, his apparent unwillingness to play political games.
He was, people said, not much like a politician, and they liked that about him.
We all did, even if some of us, myself included, wrote commentary criticising some of his policies - until we no longer knew what they were, so repackaged and managed had they become.
(The same could be said about his successor, John Key - although he has the benefit of a considerable public opinion cushion; curiously, the precise nature of his policies no longer seems to matter.)
In his early days as leader of the National Party, although dramatically different in terms of policy and social outlook, Dr Brash had about him something of the Barack Obama factor.
A newness and freshness, a sort of endearing political naivete. But gradually the party machine ironed this out and he learnt to "hide himself".
One is reminded yet again of how demanding life is for modern politicians. They are scrutinised intensely, urged to be honest and upfront - and to speak their minds.
As soon as they do, they are pilloried for it.
Witness how Defence and Trade Minister Phil Goff's recent "candour" - on Labour's election prospects and "after-Clark" - was turned by television into a baseless sensation.
Dr Brash went into the leadership with a wife and exited without one. Parliament is unforgiving on marriages.
And it's not very good on honesty either. He entered politics with firm ideals, found them severely compromised by the political process, and left disillusioned.
One likes to think that this notable New Zealander is better off out of it, and whether one agrees with his ideas or not, that he might still find a less toxic environment in which to deploy his undoubted talents and experience.
And that, one day, he might even be recognised for them.
Simon Cunliffe is assistant editor at the Otago Daily Times.
