Do I really need another coming of age story from an American man? Apparently so. I’ve enjoyed this one. Mostly, it reminded me of how boring childhood used to be. I know people talk about it a lot, but this memoir really brought back to me what it was like before phones and television. God, we were bored. And I had my cousins and a library card, so I was not even as bored as this guy, who had neglectful parents and a shack in Florida.
I am always awed/frightened by the idea of memoir. Imagine sitting down and actually trying to recall your childhood? It feels frighteningly impossible and also frighteningly possible. This deep in some Pandora box territory. I also really don’t like the idea of fixing the past into my specific narrative about it. I think the past does best when it is constantly changing, just like the future. That said, please enjoy this baller analysis of his step dad:
“Because for all his knocking around his view of the world was incredibly naïve. He believed important jobs were handed out in nightclubs by impulsive millionaires and that he was the sort of man they might be given to. Spoiled all his life . . . he deeply believed that the good things in life were given to one. Food, clothing, and the bare necessities had to be earned, but after that it was a question of being in the right place at the right time, or knowing the right people or simply being lucky. It never occurred to Jean to work hard anything except menial labour. He was always above his work, the secret possessor of an inner wealth untouched by the world – his image of himself.”
I came to this book from seeing that David Foster Wallace said it was the book that made him want to be a writer. I just love author’s recommendations of other authors. It’s sad this was only available in second-hand.