I read this book long before the scandal surrounding it came out.

At the time, while reading it, I was so overwhelmed by the story, it was an amazing story about fighting a terrible war of addiction.
I loved the story, and the writing was brilliant (even though I read a translation of it).

I wish the writer would say it is a 'Based on a real story" instead of calling it "memoirs", but still, it was an amazing read and therefore, it is staying on my 'All Time Favorite' shelf, with the 5 stars I originally gave it!

A Million Little Pieces, James Frey
A Million Little Pieces, tells the story of a 23-year-old alcoholic and abuser of other drugs and how he copes with rehabilitation in a twelve steps-oriented treatment center. While initially promoted as a memoir, it was later discovered that many of the events described in the book never happened. The book follows Frey through the painful experiences that lead up to his eventual release from the center, including his participation in the clinic's family program with his parents, despite his strong desire not to. Throughout the novel, Frey speaks of the "Fury" he is fighting, which he sees as the cause of his desire to drink alcohol and use other drugs. The "Fury" could be seen as the antagonist of the novel, because he believes that he will not be able to recover until he learns to ignore it or "kill it". Frey meets many interesting people in the clinic, with whom he forms relationships and who play an important role in his life both during and after his time in the clinic.

عنوانها: ه‍زاران‌ ه‍زار ذره‌؛ ی‍ک‌ م‍ی‍ل‍ی‍ون‌ ت‍ک‍ه‌ ک‍وچ‍ک‌؛ یک میلیون ذره کوچک؛ رقص خود خواسته با شیطان؛ نویسنده: ج‍ی‍م‍ز ف‍ری‌ (فرای)؛ ناریخ نخستین خوانش: روز بیستم ماه اکتبر سال 2017 میلادی
عنوان: ه‍زاران‌ ه‍زار ذره‌؛ نویسنده: ج‍ی‍م‍ز ف‍ری‌؛ م‍ت‍رج‍م‌: س‍ه‍ی‍ل‌ س‍م‍ی‌؛ ت‍ه‍ران‌ : ع‍ل‍م‌ ، 1385؛ در 667 ص؛ شابک: 9644056779؛ موضوع: م‍ع‍ت‍ادان‌ - ای‍الات‌ م‍ت‍ح‍ده‌ - م‍ی‍ن‍ه‌س‍وت‍ا - س‍رگ‍ذش‍ت‍ن‍ام‍ه‌ - سده 21 م
عنوان: ی‍ک‌ م‍ی‍ل‍ی‍ون‌ ت‍ک‍ه‌ ک‍وچ‍ک‌؛ نویسنده: ج‍ی‍م‍ز ف‍رای‌؛ ب‍رگ‍ردان‌: ص‍دی‍ق‍ه‌ اب‍راه‍ی‍م‍ی‌ (ف‍خ‍ار)؛ تهران، البرز، 1385؛ در 694 ص؛ شابک: ایکس - 964442509؛
عنوان: یک میلیون ذره کوچک؛ نویسنده: ج‍ی‍م‍ز ف‍رای‌؛ ب‍رگ‍ردان‌: طناز شیرزاد؛ تهران: سالی، 1386؛ در 714 ص؛ شابک: 9789647191418؛
عنوان: رقص خود خواسته با شیطان؛ نویسنده: جیمز فری؛ مترجم: حسینعلی مقیمی؛ تهران: دایره، ‏‫1387؛ در 571 ص؛ شابک: 9789646839878؛‬

داستان زندگی معتادی بیست و سه ساله‌ است، که ده سال به الکل، و سه سال به مواد مخدر، اعتیاد دارد. هدف نویسنده از نگارش کتاب نشان دادن اراده‌ ی شگفت‌ آور انسان است. ماجرای کتاب در هواپیما آغاز می‌شود. صدای موتور هواپیما «جیمز فری» را گیج می‌کند. او نمی‌داند عازم کجاست. حتی دو هفته‌ ی گذشته را به یاد نمی‌آورد. گویی دچار فراموشی شده است. پس از فرود هواپیما، به یک مرکز بازپروری برده می‌شود، به او می‌گویند: «اعتیادت را ترک کن یا قبل از رسیدن به سن بیست و چهارسالگی خواهی مرد». یادمانهای شش هفته اقامت در مرکز بازپروری، هسته‌ ی اصلی داستان را تشکیل می‌هد. و ...؛
روزنامه فرانسوی لیبراسیون گفتگویی را با نویسنده انجام داده است

نخستین رمان شما با عنوان «هزاران هزار قطعه» تحت عنوان یک رمان بیوگرافی و خاطرات منتشر شد اما پس از انتشار مشخص شد که خیلی از رویدادهای آن در زندگی واقعی رخ نداده و ساختگی بوده که همین هم جنجال بسیاری ایجاد کرد و اتهاماتی نیز بر شما وارد شد. تاثیر این اتفاق‌ها روی شما چه بود؟
من در بیست سالگی دلم می‌خواست پرجنجال‌ترین نویسنده معاصر شوم و این اتفاق هم افتاد. افسوس آن‌چه را که در گذشته انجام داده‌ ام نمی‌خورم، و برایم مهم نیست. چیزی که مهم است کیفیت کتاب است و لذتی که خواننده از آن برده. اگر لازم باشد دوباره همان کار را خواهم کرد. در زندگی باید در رویاپردازی بی‌پروا و جسور بود و از هیچ چیز نهراسید. بیشتر افسوس چیزهایی را می‌خورم که در زندگی انجامشان نداده‌ام و شکست هم تاثیری روی من نمی‌گذارد.؛

برای نوشتن به چه چیزی نیاز دارید؟
در واقع خودم هم نمی‌دانم که چطور می‌نویسم. می‌نشینم به موسیقی پانک راک و یا راک گوش می‌دهدم و منتظر می‌شوم تا کلمات خودشان بیایند. کتاب ابتدا در قلب و در وجودم شکل می‌گیرد و وظیفه ی من به عنوان یک نویسنده این است که با توان هرچه بیشتر صورتی بیرونی به آن ببخشم.؛

از کجا به این یقین رسیدید که می‌خواهید نویسنده شوید؟
نوشتن را به صورت آکادمیک و در مدرسه فرا نگرفتم. از روزی که کتاب «مدار راس السرطان» هنری میلر را خواندم فکر نویسنده شدن دیگر رهایم نکرد و به خودم می‌گفتم که مانه، آرتور رمبو و بودلر هم مانند من یک انسان بودند؛ پس چرا من نتوانم.؛

در جایی گفته بودید که افسردگی باعث شد آخرین رمانتان را با عنوان «کاترینا» بنویسید. آیا افسردگی بخشی از کار شماست؟
من فکر می‌کنم بیشتر نویسندگان از مقداری از افسردگی رنج می‌برند. ما واقعا تنها هستیم و کتابهایمان را در ذهن خود داریم. این هم خیلی عالی و هم خیلی ترسناک و نگران‌ کننده است. زیرا عدم قطعیت‌ها و تردیدهای بسیاری وجود دارد. حجم عظیمی از اندوه در من است و این اندوه را دوست می‌دارم.؛

به انتقادها حساس هستید؟
من برای رضایت منتقدان نمی‌نویسم. زندگی و حیات یک کتاب به نظر منتقدان بستگی ندارد؛ بلکه به میزان رضایت و لذتی که خوانندگان از آن می‌برند وابسته است. شخصا برایم مهم نیست اگر از کتابم متنفر باشند. امروز همه می‌ترسند که توسط مطبوعات و شبکه‌ های اجتماعی ترور شوند. من وقتی کتابی می‌نویسم می‌خواهم یا آن را خیلی دوست دشته باشند یا از آن منتفر باشند و حد وسطی را نمی‌خواهم. مشکل اینجاست که اکثر نویسندگان امروزی از ریسک کردن می‌ترسند. به عنوان مثال از میان نویسندگان فرانسوی میشل ولبک را دوست دارم و تحسینش می‌کنم. او بیش از هر فردی اهل خطر کردن است. او درست مثل خود من است. از این لحاظ که آینه‌ ای مقابل جهان گرفته. این به این معنا نیست که هر چه را می‌نویسد دوست می‌دارم؛ نه به استقبال خطر رفتنش را تحسین می‌کنم.؛

موضوع کتاب جدیدتان درباره عشق است و چرا این موضوع را انتخاب کردید؟
چه چیزی قادر است انسان را سریع‌تر از عشق خوشحال کند و این‌که آیا چیزی زیباتر از زیبایی و رنج عشق وجود دارد. شخصا شیفته ی زیبایی و عشق هستم. حتی اگر آن عشق باعث رنج و اندوه در فرد عاشق بشود. تنها چیزی که در زندگی اهمیت دارد تجربه کردن است؛ حتی اگر آن تجربه موجب رنج و آزارت شود.؛

نسخه سینمایی «هزاران هزار قطعه» قرار است به زودی اکران شود؟
بله توسط سم تیلور- جانسون و امسال در امریکا به اکران عمومی درخواهد آمد و تاکنون هم ملانی لوران، کارگردان فرانسوی برای اقتباس سینمایی از رمان «کاترینا» اعلام آمادگی کرده است.؛

پروژه بعدی شما چیست؟
می‌خواهم یک کتاب درباره دنیای کاملا دیوانه‌ واری که در آن زندگی می‌کنیم بنویسم؛ به ویژه اتفاق‌هایی که در امریکا با روی کار آمدن ترامپ افتاد و درباره ی نابودی ثروت، مهاجرت، شبکه‌ های اجتماعی و دروغ های خبری، و فکر می‌کنم کافی باشد. امروزه دیگر نمی‌توان یک گفتگوی سالم و نرمال با کسی داشت. تندروها افسار جامعه را در دست گرفته‌ اند و اگر با آن‌ها موافقت نکنی تو را خواهند شکست. ا. شربیانی

My Book Club chose to read this Book for the month of June.
I had owned it for years and never gotten around to reading it.
Then I read it.
The Book.
A Million Little Pieces.
It is the allegedly true but probably not story of a Man who smokes a lot of crack and huffs gas and drinks and drinks and drinks until he is so sick he blacks out and he worries his friends and his family until he is sent to a Clinic. He has no front teeth and his cheek has a gash. He is hurt from smoking crack and huffing gas and drinking and drinking and drinking.
He is a mess.
He needs help.
He is a mess and he needs help.
He does not want to be at the Clinic and fights all the Rules for the first 200 pages. But the Man meets some Friends who help him through the tough times, a Girl who he falls in love with, and a hard-nosed psychologist who does not give up on him. The Man is sure he can kick his habit without the help of God or Twelve Steps.
This is his story.
Allegedly.
I like this book, I thought, when I first started reading it, even though I knew it was probably 80% bull. I will read it anyway, I thought. It is a fast read. Look at how fast I am reading this book! What a fast read.
And then the Book started to annoy me.
Why aren't there quotation marks? It is not like a Cormac McCarthy book that eschews punctuation for the sake of sparse, beautiful writing. It is just eschewing for the sake of eschewing. This is ridiculous.
Why does the Man who writes the book capitalize some Nouns but not other nouns? Is the Man doing it because he thinks it's artsy? I don't think a memoir should be artsy as much as it should be factual.
Why are there no paragraph breaks or margins? Is it because the Man is a Rule-breaker and Hard-nosed and because he has a Devil May Care attitude? I think the Man just thinks he's cool, and Cool Guys don't need margins or paragraph breaks.
Why does the Man keep repeating things? He eats eggs. He eats cheese. He eats eggs and cheese. He vomits and vomits and vomits and vomits. He is scared and heartbroken and worried and mad and facing his anger and wanting to drink and do drugs and hurt himself. He is scared and heartbroken and worried and mad and facing his anger and wanting to drink and do drugs and hurt himself. I want to hurt him for writing lists instead of sentences. I also want to hurt him
For
Doing.
Things.
Like.
This.
But there's something about the book that made me want to read more.
And I read it.
I didn't throw it across the room in a fit of Rage.
It made me not want to do Crack.
But I've never wanted to do Crack.
And maybe that's why my Million Pieces are still together.

I deliberately read this memoir of non-fiction fiction to explore the relationship between truth, Truth, and story. But I didn't learn all that much about my relationship with those things as much as I did find out about other people's entaglements with those issues.

For example, I took this book with me to update my voter registration. Granted, it is a small city, so it was just me in the small office with the registrar, but I don't think being alone was the only reason she looked at what I was holding and felt compelled to say, "You know that's all lies, don't you?" Her voice and tone was more PSA sounding than that. I told her, yes, that that was precisely why I was reading it, and that maybe sometimes lies have more truth than the Truth. Perhaps her voice was one of a disgusted reader who felt cheated by Frey, I don't know. I should have found out, in the interests of my exploration...for science. But I responded only to the first question without asking another and then lickety-split left that place because she didn't look at all happy with my response (after all, I'm new to this neighborhood and she has my address and knows where I'll be coloring in circles on election day).

When my friend called and asked, "What are you reading now (book nerd)?" (- implied)
and heard "A Million Little Pieces" , she too had to tell me that the book was a lie. Everyone who had anything to say about the book I was reading said the same thing, and I think they said it for the same reason- as a warning. But even if they didn't say it as a warning, it was what I heard-Watch out! This book might not be what you think it is...this James Frey is telling a story in his story...you know, just be careful. And that is what this whole thing is about...is what you hear a truthful interpretation of what is said? Is what you read a truthful interpretation of what is written? Just how much 'story' is allowed in a story?

Thankfully, David Sedaris had an interview in the Spring '07 Missouri Review that mentioned this very thing in regards to this very book. (Mr. Sedaris, I love you. And that is true, but you can interpret it however you want)

(Sedaris:)"Was it Flannery O'Connor who said that a writer's job is not to have an experience but to contemplate experiences? That seems right to me-trying to make sense of it all."
(Interviewer:)"Earlier, we were talking about writing fiction and nonfiction. What do you feel are the most important differences between those two genres?"
(Sedaris:)"...Okay, James Frey wrote a book saying, 'I'm a fucked-up alcoholic.' And then people read the book, and now they're saying, 'That drunk lied to us!' Well, he kind of warned you in advance that he was a fucked-up alcoholic. I can't understand the self-righteousness that goes along with that anger. You can let the truth slide when it comes to the president, but if it's a first-time memoirist, how dare he? How dare he lead us on?
I loved Angela's Ashes, but if I found out tomorrow that Frank McCourt was born in Dublin instead of Limerick and that his family was wealthy, it wouldn't change my feelings about the book at all. I think autobiography is the last place you would look for truth. Biography, maybe, but not autobiography. Ever since that business with him [James Frey], fact-checkers are in overdrive. It's made my life miserable. Like, the fact-checker from The New Yorker will say, 'We talked to your father, and he said that the grandfather clock is made out of oak, and you say it was made out of cherry.' And it's not a story about a grandfather clock. It doesn't really matter. "

I got to read this book just a couple of months before the Oprah controversy broke. I remember speaking about it to the Social Work Practice class I taught at the time and noted that I wasn't at all convinced that it was "true." But I did think it had some interesting material in it if you could look past the quite serious horseshit*: the oral surgery, the romantic embraces, the endless vomiting, and ultimately, the heroic vindication.

I certainly enjoyed watching Frey squirm as he tried to parse what he understood is meant by "memoir" as if he were not the only person in existence who understands it that way.

What was good was some of the perception (after you remove the intense egoism of Frey) of the co-residents of his particular unit. I treat dozens of people a week. They aren't all whores with hearts of gold, or Mafiosi with souls of poets, but they are all real humans who have been beaten up and beaten down by something that has gotten way out of their control. And they all deserve the chance to get better and get on with life. Frey catches a bit of that.

What was bad is the relentless Freyism that states that you don't have to seriously address your behavior or your underlying character in order to beat an addiction. Frey goes into treatment as a jerk, behaves in treatment as a jerk, and leaves treatment as a jerk. Doesn't work that way. Frey seems to ascribe his "success" to his adamant refusal to be a nice guy and listen to anyone else's perspective.

Basically, the book never was a redemptive saga of a person caught up in drugs and crime. James Frey was essentially a nobody, with some minor traffic violations, maybe doing a little weed, some pills or even some cocaine. Not much to make a book. So he creates a fictional uber-James Frey. It wasn't a little weed or blow, it was drug doses that would kill a normal street junkie. Not a petty disorderly conduct, it was hard time on the Rock sparring with hardbody street toughs. Not a treatment where you sit in groups and listen for hours, it was railing with your strong will against the mind-numbing, soul-destroying system. At certain points, I almost rolled on the floor with laughter.

How do you get spectacular redemption unless you blow everything way out of proportion? Real treatment and redemption in the real world takes months and months (and years and years) of looking at yourself and making thousands of little changes in what you think and feel and do. Instead, Frey offers a formula where there is an inherent nobility and redemption in being a jerk.

*horseshit is a technical term in the literature wheeze

I haven’t read memoirs before, but I’m so glad I did. I loved the style this was written, as if he was in front of you speaking or in his head. I went through many feelings; from disgust to severe empathy. There was much more drama and stories than I expected from being his story in rehab. It was completely raw and you see the character development happening. It makes you thankful if you have not gone through as much as him, or inspired that you can do the same. Or a mixture of the two. You also get some closure on some of the individuals at the end of the book which was unexpected, but I totally appreciated.

[warning: swear words follow, beware beware]

So I read this knowing it was a total work of fiction, but I think I would have gotten it even if I hadn't known. It was just such utter crap -- oh, look at me, I'm so fucked up I can't even look myself in the eyes, in fact I'm more fucked up than EVERYONE else around me at this drug rehab facility, and yet somehow everyone just instinctively loves me -- and look how tough I am, I can undergo dental surgery without anesthesia, because I AM HARD-CORE and also DETERMINED TO KICK MY DRUG HABIT ALL ON MY OWN (you know, except for the help of all those people around me who inexplicably love me at first sight and will do anything to help me because they can sense my INNER NOBILITY). Oh, and look what a big strong tough brave chivalrous man I am for saving a woman who is, well, not as fucked up as me (because face it, nobody in the history of the world has EVER BEEN as fucked up as me), but who is delicate and pretty and totally incapable of HANDLING HER SHIT like I am, because I am MADE OF STEEL.

Yeah, I really hated this book.

I don’t have a lot of good things to say about this. First, the way us was written left me with several headaches. It was annoyingly repetitive and threw grammar right out the window. Plus, no quotation marks made it difficult for me to know when people were talking except for the times he would write “he said” “I said” over and over.
Then I had a problem with the believability of the book. Two-thirds through the novel something kept nagging me in the back of my mind that the things that were happening just didn’t seem believable. Spoiler alert, I googled after reading this “memoir” to find out he had embellished his time, substance abuse, and criminal charges to make a better story. So here we have another privileged man who could have learned to be humble from his experience, but instead used it to make money. I’m angry I even finished it to be honest.
Some good points. I did appreciate the relationship with the other patients on the unit. I feel their stories, more so than James’ were powerful ones of what addiction can do to your life. They alone are what earns this book some stars, even though they may not have even existed.

Ritmo incalzante



Senza un attimo di respiro. Ti droghi, sei ridotto come una larva, entri in comunità e piano piano, piano piano torni alla vita, mettendoci l'anima e anche qualcosa di più, senza un attimo di respiro, senza sconti.
Sembrava si trattasse di un'autobiografia, poi lo scandalo da Oprah Winfrey ha fatto saltare fuori la verità, ma la qualità della scrittura è indiscutibile (tranne sul finale quando diventa un po' tutto "volemose bene" e un po' troppo new age per i miei gusti).
Per il resto un capolavoro letterario.

Loved it. A little difficult to get through at times due to the lack of quotation marks, commas, and the constant repetition.

This book's title is a little misleading. It's actually just one gigantic piece. Of absolute bullshit. That anyone was remotely surprised when it was revealed that Frey embellished portions of this "memoir" is in itself shocking. It reads like a novel the entire way though -- the characterization, the arc, the dialogue. The character Frey creates for himself is totally unreal; he's a completely stubborn, petulant, tough-guy asshole throughout, but he's also really polite to certain people, he says things like "Thank you. I really appreciate what you've done for me here." when it's convenient for the story -- i.e. just when the reader is beginning to think Frey is a complete fuck, he says something nice. Which basically makes him come off as a total liar, which, of course, is exactly what Frey is.

The (obviously fabricated) dialogue is tiresome and clichéd. Check out this little gem. Frey is talking with a woman he's fallen in love with at rehab, and she's telling him how she's never been in love, that "Men always want to fuck me, but no one has ever loved me." Frey goes on to say (all of the book's dialogue is quotation-mark-less, unindented, and largely unattributed):

If it makes any difference, I don't want to fuck you.
She laughs.
Thanks.
I think you're beautiful, but I wouldn't fuck you because when we were done, I wouldn't want you to feel fucked. I would try to make love to you . . . but when it was over, I would want you to feel loved.

Give me a fucking break. Did a high schooler write this?

And what about the lack of indention? For some reason, Frey decided it would be cool to just not indent his paragraphs. Just, you know. For fun. To make it more real. It's completely ridiculous. He also capitalizes certain important Words here and there for emphasis; he actually does this to the subject of practically every other sentence. The effect is distracting, pretentious, tiresome, and silly. He uses all-caps to emphasize certain parts of dialogue, but then he also sometimes sets dialogue in bold, also for emphasis. Sometimes he even uses bold and all-caps, I guess when something is supposed to be super emphasized. Here's a question, though. What's more emphatic, bold or all-caps?

Probably the most distracting stylistic trick is Frey's hip and arbitrary dropping of commas and ands. Which leads to a lot of sentences like: I walk into the room the room is empty I walk to the bathroom I look at myself in the mirror. Or: I try to fall asleep I can't fall asleep. But then he'll do stuff like:

But then I remember.
The one thing.
That haunts me.
Haunts me the most.
Haunts me.

This is all an obvious attempt to cover up for lack substance with style, and it's rampant throughout the book and it's highly distracting.

And then so what does macho-man, fuck-the-twelve-step-program-I'm-bigger-than-that-I-don't-believe-in-God-I-can-do-this-shit-on-my-own-even-though-everyone-in-here-is-telling-me-I-can't James Frey do first thing when he gets out of rehab? He goes straight to a bar, orders literally a pint of bourbon (sorry: Bourbon) and just stares at it, has an internal fuck-you-I'm-fucking-better-than-you conversation with it, then walks off, symbolizing his victory over addiction. Yeah. I'm sure this actually happened.

Sincere congratulations to the author for overcoming his addiction, but this book is just pathetic.

As I was reading this, I kept thinking - when this was first published, people actually believed this was a biographical account?? Yes, hindsight is 20/20, and yes, not everyone knows what happens with addiction and addiction therapy, but there were just too many situations that beggared belief. I've had friends who were, in one way or another, involved with treatment. They've all said that this is the biggest load of nonsense they've ever read.

Continuous vomiting with massive blood and tissue loss but no medical intervention, yet still able to function more or less normally - doesn't happen, folks. The body can't sustain that kind of blood loss. Dental procedures done without anesthetic on an addict - that doesn't happen either. It would be a violation of every medical oath ever taken, by a dentist, by a doctor, by anyone in the field. The utter incompetence of the clinic staff should have been a red flag to anyone who has even a vague clue about treatment of addictions. I mean really, a violent ex-patient manages to get back into the clinic, brandishing a club, and nobody catches him at the door? I guess it could happen but I doubt that it results in a long drawn out screaming match in front of nearly every patient in the building before the person is secured and removed from the facility immediately.

I'm rehashing much-debated issues here, I know. So on to the actual writing itself. I've seen this stream of consciousness approach before. It's been done much more skillfully and effectively. The awkwardness of the prose and the heavy use of profanity is supposed to make it 'edgy' and 'raw' and 'real.' It ends up being overdone and after a while it just gets annoying. I've read real biographies of addicts, some with profanity and some without, and they manage to be much edgier, much rawer and much more real than this book had a hope in hell of being.

I read this to get it off of my TBR list and to fulfill a group reading challenge. It's done and good riddance to it. Now back to reality and really good literature.