50 Book Challenge
Book #5: Running With Scissors, by Augusten Burroughs
I am just not a fan of the memoir, I guess.
I decided to pick this book up on the recommendation of several people whose opinions I respect and also because it's being adapted into a film that will be released later this year. I was hoping for something irreverent and quirky, and I suppose it was, but not in a way that moved me.
The trouble I really have with memoirs - that is, current-day memoirs along this lines of this one, James Frey's recent brouhaha-raising story, and Judith Moore's Fat Girl - is that they just revel in the horrible, horrible things that happened to the protagonist (i.e. the real-life author of the book). I simply don't enjoy reading about other people's misery, even if it's couched in a "ha ha, isn't this funny" tone like Burroughs uses. It's nearly impossible to feel compelled to keep reading about Burroughs' teenaged experiences with a 30-something boyfriend. I suppose the good news is that Burroughs' mother and legal guardian were okay with the relationship, but it gives me the heebie jeebies.
Even worse, though, are the frequent references to defecation in all its many forms. I *really* don't need to be reading about a man who thinks his poo is predicting the future. It's not funny, it's not interesting, and it doesn't really add anything to the story.
The honest evaluation is that I disliked the book so much, I could hardly wait to finish it so I could sell it on Half.com. Thankfully, it sold the day I put it on the market. I feel pretty confident that I'm not going to want to see the movie adaptation, regardless of the pedigree of the cast (Annette Bening, Gwyneth Paltrow, Brian Cox, Joseph Fiennes) and the creativity of its director/writer (Nip/Tuck creator Ryan Murphy).
Book #5: Running With Scissors, by Augusten Burroughs
I am just not a fan of the memoir, I guess.
I decided to pick this book up on the recommendation of several people whose opinions I respect and also because it's being adapted into a film that will be released later this year. I was hoping for something irreverent and quirky, and I suppose it was, but not in a way that moved me.
The trouble I really have with memoirs - that is, current-day memoirs along this lines of this one, James Frey's recent brouhaha-raising story, and Judith Moore's Fat Girl - is that they just revel in the horrible, horrible things that happened to the protagonist (i.e. the real-life author of the book). I simply don't enjoy reading about other people's misery, even if it's couched in a "ha ha, isn't this funny" tone like Burroughs uses. It's nearly impossible to feel compelled to keep reading about Burroughs' teenaged experiences with a 30-something boyfriend. I suppose the good news is that Burroughs' mother and legal guardian were okay with the relationship, but it gives me the heebie jeebies.
Even worse, though, are the frequent references to defecation in all its many forms. I *really* don't need to be reading about a man who thinks his poo is predicting the future. It's not funny, it's not interesting, and it doesn't really add anything to the story.
The honest evaluation is that I disliked the book so much, I could hardly wait to finish it so I could sell it on Half.com. Thankfully, it sold the day I put it on the market. I feel pretty confident that I'm not going to want to see the movie adaptation, regardless of the pedigree of the cast (Annette Bening, Gwyneth Paltrow, Brian Cox, Joseph Fiennes) and the creativity of its director/writer (Nip/Tuck creator Ryan Murphy).
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