I read two memoirs over the holiday weekend: “Tender at the Bone” by Ruth Reichl (a gift from my estimable friend Lisa), and “Running with Scissors” by Augusten Burroughs. As it turns out, they’re both about the authors’ unconventional childhoods and their mentally ill mothers. But other than that, they’re miles apart.
Reichl’s is light and breezy, even when discussing her mother’s illness, and focuses on the food she ate and cooked in her hippie/preppy odyssey through childhood and young adulthood. Burroughs’ account is darkly funny at times but mostly harrowing, as he’s shuttled from one (literally) crazy group of people to another. I guess I would say Reichl’s was a little too light for my taste, and Burroughs’ a little too dark.
One thing I find fascinating about memoirs is how some people can reconstruct detailed memories of long-ago events, conversations and emotions. My friend Paul has a memory like that – I bet he could write a fascinating memoir. But me, I have trouble with yesterday. (Maybe that’s why I’m so hooked on this most immediate of mediums, the web.) Since I’m on this memoir kick, maybe someone can recommend one that would be “just right” for me.
That’s an easy one: “A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius” by Dave Eggars.
I have a copy in paperback if you’d like to borrow it.
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I go now.
Or you could just write your own. It’s the sure-fire cure for unsatisfying literature.
John: I would write my own, except I haven’t mastered your concept of making my mundane life interesting. Plus, there’s the memory problem I’ve already mentioned.