Found this by accident in a bin at Costco many years ago. Found it totally absorbing, growing up as I did in much the same place but without the illness that plagued his family.

Abandoned so quickly!

I had a film called "I Play With the Phrase Each Other" on my watchlist for a while because it was made entirely on iPhones, and I'm always interested in that kind of resource filmmaking. It's here if you want to see it:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uX0VZ...
Anyway, the main character starts talking this pseudo Allen Ginsberg nonsense, and behind him on the shelf are Denis Johnson and William Burroughs books and such, and I thought—okay what type of film am I watching: one where the guy is mocking this type of person, or unironically being this type of person? Like, is his dialogue knowingly pretentious and laughable, or am I supposed to take it seriously? Reader, it was the LATTER! And without Googling, I figured, okay, this guy I'm watching is the guy who wrote and directed this, for the purpose of being seen as very clever. I was like, close browser window, so hard haha. (Oh, and you know what that title means? Me neither. And I think that's the point.)

This stuff makes me cringe so hard because there once was a day when I wanted to be this type of person, the young guy who has read a whole bunch and so can be eloquent (read: needlessly loquacious) about almost anything. What a weird little bubble of culture. Who does it exist for? Is it simply written and read by clever young guys who admire it because they would like to be admired in that way?

I don't know but I'm surprised by how quickly a type of material in my mind has gone from lauded to repulsive.

As for the content: well it was quite confusing, but from the blurb I figured his parents had passed away. There are lengthy graphic descriptions of how he cared for his mother, and her ailments, some of which I think is supposed to be darkly funny? Just made me feel like, poor woman: all I will ever know about her is how ill she once was, as described by her son.

To what end, exactly? I mean, I went through something similar with my mother, at about the same age (although, you know who really went through my mum's illness? She did. My experience of it, therefore, to me, barely bothers getting described) Is it supposed to be cathartic for me to read? Or does Eggers imagine a reader who has not yet experienced something like this—so, what, are they supposed to feel sorry for him? I mean they might go through something like it one day, in which case, why sully their lives by making them read the disgusting details of you caring for your mum? Like, what's your point?

I'm not trying to sound callous, and I don't know if I'm making myself clear. I think I'm just not a memoir guy at all. Like, I feel dreadful for everyone involved in this tragedy. But why should I feel dreadful for them in particular, over anyone else alive? We're all subject to the same constraints when it comes to terminal illness and mortality. Either it has happened or it will. About which I guess I feel horrific—or once did. Now I've kinda accepted it. So, get on with it, everyone? Good luck? Hope you don't get it?

I'm about ten years late to this one. About which I have no regrets. Just like I have no regrets about not being known as the author of this kinda book, haha!

I was sick of Eggers'
self-absorbed schtick after three pages of the preface. But, the cover read
"pulitzer prize finalist" (among other superlatives), so I forged on. I'd made
it to page 33 of the actual text (without laughing once) when I noticed Eggers'
picture on the back cover. He reminded me of some people I'd met when I was
working at a startup company during the early internet boom. They were so full
of themselves with their free-wheeling style, their stock options, and their
flat-front banana-republic slacks. I felt they were full of shit, but it took
me awhile to act on that feeling with confidence, and, thus, to stay in school. History
ultimately proved me right. Therefore, I decided to learn from that history,
and I threw this book in the trash.

So this book is bulletproof. I finished A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius by Dave Eggers a few weeks ago, but for some reason wasn’t motivated to write about it. I went in with high expectations (always a mistake), and came out thinking it was great, but with vague, nagging sense of disappointment that I cannot fully articulate. I love McSweeney’s and since just about everyone else under 30 living in San Francisco has apparently already read the book, I had heard raves from several different places, including how cool it was to read about parts of the city they knew and to read Eggers describe doing things my very friends also do. Also there was that big ol’ “Pullitzer Prize Finalist” bubble on the cover. So that was the hype, but it did not help that contemporaneously with reading I kept stumbling across pieces, well, making fun of Eggers.

Back to the bulletproof aspect - this book is (brilliantly) so knowingly self-aware of just how incredibly self-indulgent it is. So before you can even make that point (which, well, it’s still sitting there), it’s been made and brushed aside. But it’s an autobiography and those are inherently self-indulgent. And as one preface in some autobiography I read in my first history course in college (I think it was by a slave - the book not the course), every autobiography has to be taken with a grain of salt because people cannot be expected to recollect perfectly nor can they be expected to not exaggerate.

My favorite part, to be honest, was what comes before the proper book - the copyright page, preface, acknowledgments, etc. They are the longest most consistent stretch of amusement in the book. The first part, about Eggers’ parents dying, floors you with the honest, open, gory details. The relationship with his brother Toph is fun to read because he depicts it with such adoration, and his becoming a parent is so, well, heartwarming even if his life as a twentysomething like that of other twentysomethings is a study in self-absorption and know-it-all-ism. The brushes with fame (Adam Rich, Vince Vaugn, Mr. T, Judd from The Real World San Francisco, a girl from Dangerous Minds) add an interesting twist, but make him even less ordinary. Overall, it was a good, fun read.

If literary hubris and crippling self-awareness/obsession are tacky, then I don't want to be classy.

[3.5 Stars]

Initial Disclaimers: This was my first Eggers book and I went in blind (which I usually prefer). I had not realized that it was a memoir to the extent that it is. Which I think is mostly why I wasn't completely enthralled from the get-go. Reading a book about someone's life you know nothing about is hard(er) I think to really commit to and be captivated by than say a novel with intent, at least for me.
That said, this was on the whole an really enjoyable experience. I found the writing honest and raw. The book has down right hilarious at moments and contained plenty of tragedy strewn about in equal measure. There is definitely a poetic weight/counterweight being played out. Humor to deal with grief, reckless abandon to combat life's throes. While it was hard for me to make a lasting connection to the orphaned brothers; Dave and Tophe, I still felt I needed to see how their story panned out.

Reading others reviews I wasn't as offput it seems by the "asshole-ness" of Dave. I think I understand where the sentiment comes from, but I just took it as being transparent and honest in his writing. I mean most of us ARE assholes in our 20's. Especially when dealing with heavy shit. Without this honesty the book would certainly have been more vapid and not authentic to what Dave and his little brother went through. They like all of us had to learn the lessons, but in their own ways.

Excerpts I really enjoyed:
"What’s more romantic, preservation or decay"
(On dealing with your dead parent's belongings)

"I can’t decide if what I’m doing is beautiful and noble and right; or small and disgusting"
(On spreading his mother's ashes)

Dave Eggers e Toph Eggers

6 Estrelas Assombrosas

O livro “Uma Obra Enternecedora de Assombroso Génio” do escritor norte-americano Dave Eggers (n. 1970) foi editado em 2000 e é um título absolutamente admirável para uma obra de “não-ficção” – uma história verdadeira contada como “ficção” pelo próprio, sobre a sua família - os pais e irmãos - e os seus amigos.
O “início” do livro é desconcertante – “Regras e sugestões para a apreciação deste livro”: 1 – “Não há nenhuma necessidade avassaladora de ler o prefácio. A sério.” (Não o li) - 2 – “Não há nenhuma necessidade culminante de ler a secção dos agradecimentos.” (não li) - 3 – “Poderá saltar a página do índice, caso esteja com pouco tempo.” (consultava o índice durante a leitura de cada capítulo) - 4 – “A bem dizer, muitos de vós talvez queiram saltar boa parte do meio, nomeadamente as pág. 264 a 367, que tratam das vidas de pessoas com pouco mais de vinte anos, e é muito difícil tornar-se tais vidas interessantes, mesmo quando elas parecem interessantes àqueles que as vivem nessa época.” (não saltei nenhuma página) - 5 – “Para falar com franqueza, os primeiros três ou quatro capítulos talvez sejam tudo aquilo com que alguns de vós venham a querer incomodar-se. Isso leva-nos até à pág. 153 ou perto disso, o que já é .... uma bela novela.” (não saltei nenhuma página, muito menos um capítulo) - 6 – “Dai em diante o livro é a modos desigual.” (diria genial).
O Capítulo I é demolidor, verdadeiramente trágico e triste, Dave o narrador/escritor revela-nos com crueza que "Tiraram o estômago à minha mãe há cerca de seis meses. Por essa altura, não havia muito a remover - já lhe haviam tirado o "resto" dele cerca de um anos antes.... fizeram-na cumprir um calendário de quimioterapia. Mas claro que não lho tiraram todo. Tinham lá deixado parte e aquilo crescera, regressara, pusera ovos... Mas seis meses mais tarde voltara a ter dores...”, numa luta dramática e desigual pela sobrevivência.
Mas, “inexplicavelmente” e de um modo “imprevisível” é o seu pai que morre com um cancro fulminante, trinta e dois dias antes, do falecimento “esperado” da sua mãe.
Numa família de quatro irmãos, é Dave com vinte anos que se encarrega e “assume” a educação do seu irmão mais novo Toph, de apenas oito anos, uma vez que os irmãos mais velhos Beth e Bill, a primeira da faculdade de Direito e o segundo a viver em Los Angeles, não tinham essa disponibilidade.
A vivência e as relações entre os dois irmãos é absolutamente delirante e inesquecível, assente, simultaneamente, no desleixo e na responsabilidade, numa evolução contínua de aprendizagem e companheirismo.
Inquestionavelmente as recordações – boas e más – condicionam o estado de espírito de Dave, nomeadamente, o remorso e os equívocos dos relacionamentos familiares interrompidos ou não concluídos, e as relações amorosas e profissionais complexas.
Este é um livro sem meio-termo – ou se ama ou se odeia – numa viagem literária inesquecível, pelos devaneios emocionais e pelos infortúnios de Dave, de Toph, dos seus irmãos Beth e Bill, e por um conjunto de personagens secundárias, numa escrita que alterna entre um dramatismo angustiante e um humor caótico.
Para terminar “Bom demais para ser verdade” (London Review of Books).
E finalmente vou ler o “Prefácio a esta edição” e os “Agradecimentos”.

I do believe that this book was important for Dave Eggers to write.
I do believe that it was heartbreaking work for him.

Dave is the 3rd of 4 children. His youngest brother, Toph (short for Christopher) is much younger than the first 3.
Their parents both die of cancer within 2 months of each other and Dave becomes the primary caretaker of his little brother (maybe 8 years old or so).
This family has been dealt a rotten deal and I feel for them.

The first 25% of the book was captivating to me. Eggers writes about his experience with his mom during those last few weeks of her life. After that, the writing was sort of like a stream of
Consciousness/fever dream. The writing of this book was most likely therapeutic to him and I think that it was important for him to share it, but for me it went on and on in circles at many points.

4.5/5
I really enjoyed this book. I can understand why some dont, but I found Eggers voice to be authentic and funny. I consistently had a smirk on my face reading this book, and having recently lost my mother I can relate to the emptiness that parts of the book exude.

Eggers can clearly write, and the fact that he seems to publish a book every year makes me wonder if he has had some diminishing results. However I am excited to read his first novel, You Shall Know Our Velocity soon.

Recommended for those who don't take the title seriously.

A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius

Alcuni temi del libro:
-L'INCONFESSATA MAGIA DELLA SCOMPARSA DEI GENITORI
-L'AMORE FRATERNO/BIZZARRO FATTORE SIMBIOTICO
-L'ASPETTO DI DOLOROSA E INCESSANTE AUTOCONSAPEVOLEZZA DEL LIBRO(E LA COSCIENZA DELL'ASPETTO DI AUTOCONSAPEVOLEZZA DEL LIBRO)
-RACCONTARE IL MONDO DELLA SOFFERENZA COME MEZZO PER SPAZZARE VIA O ALMENO ATTUTIRE IL FATTORE DOLORE .
-RENDEZ-VOUS SESSUALI CON VECCHIE AMICHE E COMPAGNE DI SCUOLA IN QUANTO MEZZO PER OTTENERE UNA CONTRAZIONE TEMPORALE E UNA RIVENDICAZIONE DI AUTOSTIMA E PER RAFFORZARE L'IDEA DI "COMUNITA'"(AH?)
E poi
-L'AUTOCELEBRAZIONE IN QUANTO FORMA D'ARTE
-L'AUTOFLAGELLAZIONE IN QUANTO FORMA D'ARTE
-L'AUTOCELEBRAZIONE MASCHERATA DA AUTOFLAGELLAZIONE IN QUANTO FORMA D'ARTE ANCORA PIU' ELEVATA
ecc...
Ora.
Secondo me non ne resterete delusi (soprattutto se non potete fare a meno del parquet in casa, ovviamente per delle belle scivolate col calzino...)
A meno che non siate tipi che di solito rimangono delusi ,
nel qual caso si trattera' dell'ennesima delusione :)

4/5 stelline

In Una certa idea di mondo, a proposito de L'opera struggente di un formidabile genio, Baricco scrive:

“Altro libro d'esordio che, quando lo lessi, mi lasciò secco. La cosa che mi colpì, allora, fu da subito la quantità d'energia che c'era là dentro. […] La forza di questo Eggers era talmente alluvionale che aveva allagato tutto: prima ancora che il libro iniziasse, era già esondata in parti di libro che di solito fanno storia a sé: c'era una prefazione che era una sorta di racconto postmoderno, dei ringraziamenti che duravano per sedici pagine, uno schemino con le più ricorrenti metafore usate nel libro (con relativa spiegazione), e poi di nuovo ringraziamenti a cascata (si ringraziavano anche le Poste Americane). A quel punto rimaneva, intatto, giusto il colophon (quei credits un po' fiscali che nemmeno guardate mai, nella prima pagina di sinistra): la cosa, a Eggers, dovette sembrare spiacevole, così la realtà dei fatti è che se voi leggete il colophon lo scoprite scritto da lui: naturalmente, invece di qualche riga anonima, vi trovate interessanti annotazioni sul mondo e sulle tendenze sessuali dell'autore. Senza scherzi, era tutto fantastico.”

E poi prosegue:

“Poi, naturalmente, c'era il libro vero e proprio, e lì di solito casca l'asino […] perché va bene aprire la diga, ma poi devi essere un ingegnere idraulico, e un maestro di argini, per ottenere qualcosa che possa chiamarsi un libro, se non addirittura un bel libro. Anche in quello, tuttavia, Eggers era straordinario. C'era di mezzo un sacco di maestria, e tonnellate di tecnica, ma la cosa sorprendente era vederle sparire nella corrente del racconto, e lasciarsi dietro giusto la magia di una naturalezza assoluta che per qualche ragione misteriosa correva disciplinata, e perfetta. Non c'è molta gente, in giro, capace di cose del genere. Così mi ricordo che mi levai il cappello, com’era giusto, e semplicemente mi arresi all'idea che c'era gente, viva, molto più brava di me.”

Quanto mi piace Baricco e la sua spudoratezza da giocatore d’azzardo. :-)))
Perché, io sono sicura, lui non si è arreso manco per niente e non credo proprio che si sia “levato il cappello”. E lo sa benissimo anche lui. Perché se la prima parte delle sue affermazioni è vera, la seconda, invece, no. E, infatti, l’asino casca. Eccome se casca.

La bellissima prosa di Eggers finisce proprio per affogare nella sua eccessiva ricchezza e nella sua logorroicità da “primo libro”. E un maestro della sintesi, qual è Baricco, non può non averlo rilevato. O meglio, lo ha rilevato (poiché dice: “È un tratto tipico dei primi libri: si viene da anni di compressione, di materiale accumulato, di vita mai urlata, e il primo libro è come aprire una diga. Defluisce fuori di tutto, a cascata, con un gusto per lo spreco e un eccesso di generosità che poi passerai la vita a giudicare assolutamente idioti e, simultaneamente, a rimpiangere come qualcosa di cui non sarai mai più capace.”). Ma, da perfetto gatto del Cheshire, qual è Baricco prima parla e sorride e poi, puff, sparisce. E resta solo il suo sorriso. :-))))

In buona sostanza, L'opera struggente di un formidabile genio è un buon romanzo, con più che ottimi passaggi, ma l’autore, comprensibilmente, non riesce a gestire efficacemente tutta “la carne che ha messo al fuoco”. Che è tanta, veramente tanta. Un così ampio “calderone ribollente” di situazioni, sentimenti ed emozioni, sinora, l’ho visto portare a buon fine solo da Mordecai Richler ne La versione di Barney e, parzialmente, da Zadie Smith in Denti bianchi, benché in ambiti certamente meno drammatici e, soprattutto, meno personali.

Però, alcune parti, va detto, sono davvero struggenti e mi hanno commossa per la loro dolorosità, nonché per l’implicita, anche se non effettiva, ritrosia espressiva, che sceglie, per pudore, di stemperarsi nell’umorismo. Ma che dovevano essere raccontate. Perché il rospo doveva pur essere sputato.

About a boy who loses both parents & must then become a parent to his own sibling...

Sure, many elements must converge to make a wee autobiography one outstanding read. Here's the jist: Eggers is an almost-household name writer who abuses his witty (ha-ha-ha) title and confounds the reader with an (incredibly dragged-out) insistence upon his own life story. Bookmarked by the dual tragedy of losing parents to cancer (within weeks of one another) are a bunch of vanilla events making up the bulk of the narrative: the guy knows just how vanilla it all is, and by using the tragedy as a platform to exalt HIMSELF (!) he can comfortably become the new superliterary Tyra Banks. Obviously by starting with the incident and by ending with it, the tugging at the heartstrings is seen as mechanical, a (if not THE) gimmick.

It IS heartbreaking, though. Almost enough to (just like with my experience with 'Animal's People") put it down for good, if not for the attempt to make this into an even MORE personal account, promising much, even having revised editions put out, with new additions, clarifications notes, etc. Oh, Eggers: We truly care about you (why else read 400+ pages of your life?)!!! Post-modernism is promised throughout, as if this novel device will leave the reader awe-struck, as if the work shall surely be "staggering"! The only development here is the author's promises of a "straightforward" first half and a whimsical, self-absorbed postmodern second half. It's all a LIE (!!!)

There is so much anger in this that it negatively affects the plot itself (how he is completely obsessed by his blond haired-blue eyed sibling, how he thinks bad things will happen any time, how he wants to fight the status quo he has no real problems with...). Once one discovers that at an editor's request to paint a "deeply hilarious" portrait of tragedy (I will bow down only to this: the Writer's Balls... his deep courage to prostitute away such an intimate detail in order to sell books [a method which, by the way, actually worked!]), to make it wacky and somewhat self-aware (only in that dreary, lazy way of the Postmodern work labeling itself as such), all the magic, all realism (which, in all truth, is what's incredibly HEARTBREAKING) is gone.