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I thought about putting on my size 10 wellies for this one.
Well, isn't this so called 'memoir' not just littered with bullshit?
Not, I suppose, that it really mattered. As whether a memoir, fictional memoir, or novel, it just wasn't very good. The writing isn't anything special for one thing, and it's certainly in need of a good editor. The only people I felt any emotion and pity for in the end was James's anguished parents—who he at least acknowledges at the back of the book with a big 'thank you' for their loving support.
But hey, if like your books to be repetitive, then you've come to the right place; especially when it comes to things like this -
'I get out of bed and walk to the bathroom. I shower and shave and I brush my teeth. I get dressed and I leave the room. I get a cup of coffee and I sit down at a table and I drink the coffee'
I mean, come on!, what else can one do with a cup a coffee besides drink it?
Dance with it? Play noughts and crosses with it ? Ask it for a light?
I know rehab is all about routine, and taking small steps at a time, and it's anything but a walk in the park, but I just found it very very difficult to get behind this guy and hope it all worked out for him. What is there to believe and what not to believe? It really feels like a kick in the guts to all those out there going through hell in rehab. Then there are the supposed crimes he was wanted for in three different states, and those he met and mixed with. Why not just be sincerely honest about it son?
Even when he found love in the form of another crack addict called Lily I struggled to get on board.
(Normally I love the whole idea of finding love in the most unexpected of places)
There are two writers in Brett Easton Ellis and Denis Johnson who I would have been far more interested in when it comes to writing about drug addiction.
The message that hard drugs basically fuck you up—period, resonated with me.
The writer absolutely did not.