Friday, January 13, 2006
Vicariousness
(offline for a few days as our laptop was nursed back to semihealth)
The James Frey affair continues to play out in the news media and online. I don't have much more to say about his "memoir" and his need to exaggerate his misdeeds, but all this speculation and investigation has made me think about why I liked his book in the first place.
I'm an onlooker, a literary rubbernecker. I have long enjoyed the memoir genre that features seedy people doing reckless and seedy things -- narcotic-fueled "nonfiction" if you will. Jim Carroll, Bukowski, William S. Burroughs, Augusten Burroughs, Jerry Stahl (Permanent Midnight). I'm sure there's others I've read, but they escape me. Eddie Little's Another Day in Paradise -- fiction, but some prurient interest drew me to that too.
Is it vicarious thrills I'm seeking? Is it a curiousity about how low humans can go? A reaction to my own relatively tame existence? I mean, I've had some experiences, and I've dabbled, and I may even have been excessive in my consumption for a period of time (say, 1992 to 1995). But I never went hardcore -- like losing a job, or getting arrested, or heck, even tried any hardcore narcotics.
James Frey, you poseur. How can I count on getting goosed by the thrill of dangerous living by others, when so much of it is bullshit! I feel robbed! Not really...this guy and many others should feel wronged and pissed off. They did the real down and dirty work of getting through the harrowing ride of addiction, while how can we even know if Frey's victory is real, if the stuff that led him there is a house of cards?
Even energy on this dude, right? But isn't it interesting, the times we live in? Who knows what embellishments Jim Carroll or William Burroughs got away with -- there was no Smoking Gun around to pursue the "truth" through open records and investigative reporting. Did they get away with anything? I don't know -- I suppose memoirists are entitled to some literary license...as long as they cop to it upfront.
Have a good weekend all.
The James Frey affair continues to play out in the news media and online. I don't have much more to say about his "memoir" and his need to exaggerate his misdeeds, but all this speculation and investigation has made me think about why I liked his book in the first place.
I'm an onlooker, a literary rubbernecker. I have long enjoyed the memoir genre that features seedy people doing reckless and seedy things -- narcotic-fueled "nonfiction" if you will. Jim Carroll, Bukowski, William S. Burroughs, Augusten Burroughs, Jerry Stahl (Permanent Midnight). I'm sure there's others I've read, but they escape me. Eddie Little's Another Day in Paradise -- fiction, but some prurient interest drew me to that too.
Is it vicarious thrills I'm seeking? Is it a curiousity about how low humans can go? A reaction to my own relatively tame existence? I mean, I've had some experiences, and I've dabbled, and I may even have been excessive in my consumption for a period of time (say, 1992 to 1995). But I never went hardcore -- like losing a job, or getting arrested, or heck, even tried any hardcore narcotics.
James Frey, you poseur. How can I count on getting goosed by the thrill of dangerous living by others, when so much of it is bullshit! I feel robbed! Not really...this guy and many others should feel wronged and pissed off. They did the real down and dirty work of getting through the harrowing ride of addiction, while how can we even know if Frey's victory is real, if the stuff that led him there is a house of cards?
Even energy on this dude, right? But isn't it interesting, the times we live in? Who knows what embellishments Jim Carroll or William Burroughs got away with -- there was no Smoking Gun around to pursue the "truth" through open records and investigative reporting. Did they get away with anything? I don't know -- I suppose memoirists are entitled to some literary license...as long as they cop to it upfront.
Have a good weekend all.
// posted by Bill @ 2:29 PM 
