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Executive Times |
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2008 Book Reviews |
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A Wolf at
the Table: A Memoir of My Father by Augusten Burroughs |
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Rating: |
**** |
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(Highly Recommended) |
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Click
on title or picture to buy from amazon.com |
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Brutal There
are many reasons for reading memoirs. Celebrity memoirs give fans anecdotes
about admired individuals or notorious figures. Literary memoirs allow
readers to bask in fine writing. Some memoirs provide insight into human
behavior and allow readers to gain insight into our human condition. Augusten
Burroughs latest memoir, A Wolf at
the Table, is in the literary category. This memoir of life with his
father presents fine writing about an individual whose behavior as recalled
by his son need not be emulated. Throughout these pages, Burroughs never
releases the tension of the child who looks for love and affection from an
alcoholic and otherwise disturbed man, whose brutality knows no bounds. The
sadness and darkness of this childhood comes across with a detachment by this
talented writer. Here’s an excerpt, pp. 8-10: We
checked into a
Holiday Inn just off Interstate 91 in Northampton. The first thing I did was
stand on the bed and touch the rough, sparkly ceiling. I could just reach it.
As I drew my finger across the coarse, prickly surface I enjoyed a sense of
relief and fulfillment it felt exactly as I knew it would. Sometimes, I would
be sitting next to my mother in the car looking out the window when I saw a
fence or a stone wall. "Pull over, please," I would cry and my
mother would slide the car over to the shoulder. I'd been watching the fence
or the stone wall and imagining running my fingers across it, could almost
experience what it would feel like to the touch. And I simply had to see if I
was right, if it felt the way I thought it would feel. It was like this with
the ceiling. My mother grabbed the telephone
and carried it over to the bed. She made a pile of pillows behind her back,
lit a cigarette, and settled in. I turned on the television and
my mother automatically made a motion with her hand, lower the volume. She called her friend Gayle and
spoke in a weary, fatigued whisper. "I took Augusten and left the
house." She pulled on her cigarette and blew the smoke above the
mouthpiece of the phone. "Yes, exactly," she said. "That's
what I was worried about. So we're fine now. We're here and I'll phone the
doctor in the morning. Hopefully he can work on John." It was hard to focus on the
television and not eavesdrop on what my mother was saying. I began worrying
about Ernie. Would my father just give him his regular food, or would he remember
to give him treats? He had been the one who'd first given Ernie some carrots,
so I wasn't too worried. My mother didn't stay on the
phone for long. She hung up and told me, "I have some dimes if you want
to run down to the vending machine for a snack." The vivid paisley print of my
mother's hand-sewn cotton dress nearly throbbed in the drab room, which was
lit only by a single lamp, its shade yellowed and stained. Now, being alone
with her again, on the run, unsafe, I felt as though everything I knew was
folding in on itself. My stomach faithfully cramped. "I wish we'd
brought a hot water bottle," I mumbled. "Oh, is your stomach
bothering you again?" she said, and just the way she said it
soothed me. "Yes," I answered. She pulled me close and placed
her warm hand on my stomach. "Shhhh," she said, gently kissing my
forehead. "It's okay" And even though I knew that it wasn't, I let
it be. She smelled like metal. I wanted to sleep. We slept. In the morning, my mother
called my school and told them I would be out for a few days. We breakfasted on eggs over
easy and dry white toast at a diner. The parking lot was filled with tractor
trailers. My mother smoked and pushed her
plate away untouched. "Did you sleep, Mom?" "A little." "You look so tired. Are
you okay?" Her cheeks appeared hollow and gaunt, and her eyes,
bloodshot, had a haunted look that I didn't like at all. Almost under her breath she
said, "Finish your eggs, at least the white part." I looked at the sprig of
parsley on my plate and wondered if Ernie would eat it. I wanted to fold it
into a napkin and bring it home for him. But when would we be home again? By the evening of the second
night my mother had seen her psychiatrist and spoken to my father on the
phone. I'd remained close to her side, except at the doctor's office, where I
waited for her in the reception room. "We'll
go home
tomorrow," she told me. "Can we go tonight?" "No. Tomorrow" Finally I asked her, "What
happened?" She looked thoughtfully at me
and then seemed to decide something. "Your father has been drinking very
heavily lately, and the other night when we were having that fight he wrapped
his hands around my neck. I managed to kick him in the knee and free
myself." I just watched her. "So I didn't think we
should stay in the house anymore. I was worried that he was dangerous. Your
father needed some time to settle down," she told me. I held the word in my mouth before
letting it out. "Dangerous." What was this unspeakable danger,
which had the quality of a dream evaporating just after waking? A name, but
no shape. What was it about him that made me wary even when he wasn't drunk?
And whatever it was, did I have it within me, too? She stared into my eyes and her
face held an expression as articulate as the words: you
know. I
could always read my mother by looking at her eyes. Whether she was happy or
sad or frightened or upset, it was just right there. I thought of my father's
eyes. And how they revealed absolutely nothing. When I looked at him, I saw
only my own questioning, searching gaze reflected back at me. If the
creation of art demands suffering, Burroughs presents the source of his
creativity in the childhood he presents in A Wolf at
the Table. Steve
Hopkins, June 20, 2008 |
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The recommendation rating for
this book appeared in the July 2008 issue of Executive Times URL for this review: http://www.hopkinsandcompany.com/Books/A Wolf at the Table.htm For Reprint Permission, Contact: Hopkins & Company, LLC • E-mail: books@hopkinsandcompany.com |
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