
Augusten Burroghs is a talented writer with a tormented past. His memoirs have made best-seller lists; he is riding the cutting edge of literary trendiness. Memoir! You should write a book! Its all the rage these days; I hear it myself at cocktail parties. How flattering to think we could finally be recognized for all of our sufferings, given credit for our foresights, appreciated for our nobility. Mr. Burroughs had a sociopathic father; he was distant and manipulative. Father’s games were complicated: a pastor and philosophy professor has detailed dysfunctions. And on top of everything, Mother was a hopeless wreck. Still, I never quite fell for it. My childhood was no picnic, but I rarely ever discuss it. One good friend of mine (if it adds cred, let me say she was victim of incest), “Your parents have you, for the most, for eighteen years. You can’t take more time to recover than what it took for them to do the damage.” This is a hard rule: we live in a culture of pity and excuses. I couldn’t help feel that Mr. Burroughs’ writing was a painful revel. There are people who need to read this book. No doubt it will heal them. But Augusten was rarely beaten, never sexually abused, generally neglected. The Wolf at the Table is a sad book, not just because a child was abused, but because it took him so long (until the death of his father) to separate himself from his abuser. I’m not a fan of Jesus either, in the context of celebrity suffering.
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