I finished reading Running with Scissors yesterday. It was a short read, just 4 1/2 hours.
With this book, I have decided that I now know why I'm not so fond of post modern writers, and why memoir sometimes chafes my intellect.
Its key feature seems to be reflection without discovery.
My friend Pat reminded me that the narrator is a teenager: And after thoughtful consideration my response is, yes, but the writer is an adult. The book is one cognitive dissonance after another, but the only resolution is the fact that we can get used to anything, and once we're used to it, it's normalized and we are forever separated from those whose normalities are different.
I once tutored a student from Russia whose idea of literature was very specific. The difference between high literature and popular writing is the depth and breadth of the wisdom gained from the reading. She was offended when her English instructor asked her to read works that she did not consider worthy of the time, effort, or money required of her. I believe she said something to the effect of Garbage in--Garbage out.
I do not believe Running with Scissors is garbage. I merely believe that my reading it did not help me achieve enlightenment.
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3 comments:
I'm gonna tell Augusten Burroughs on you.
Hey Moop,
I guess I thought you'd really appreciate the way the narrator disengages from any real sympathy for his mother in the end. Well, that's not exactly true, but he certainly doesn't come to a real "golly, mom was just a trailblazer with a lot on her mind, misunderstood by anybody not as brilliant as she is" kind of thing. Mom is what she is, as are all of our mothers. As for the pomo, yeah it's there, but I don't think in a heavy handed or coy sort of way. I think it's a story that was worth reading because it made me feel lucky to have what I have, a mother who tries. That's all I got for now. My tribute to you will be coming up on my blog soon, so watch out for it.
I love you.
You should rent the RWS movie.
Some scars are better left healed, maybe. I'm not the audience for that piece, mostly because he left too many opportunities for an audience to defend his mother's episodes, or justify them, or blame them.
Disassociation is exactly what I work at NOT normalizing. Maintaining an emotional distance from the crazy person who tries her best to make my life miserable, yes, but not disassociation as a whole. The mentally ill are, unforgettably, real people; they are merely real people we have no hope of decoding. I will still take care of my crazy person, and when it's all said and done, I will have had a lot of practice managing my temper, listening, putting her comfort before my own, and walking her down the street and into stores without even the slightest flush of embarrassment when she talks to people who aren't there.
Call me old-fashioned in an almost but not quite Victorian sort of way, but it's all about the discovery and something I can use to better myself, my understanding, my life. That's what I have always loved about reading.
A lot in the book reminded me of events that I haven't thought about in 30 years. Some gashes are better left to heal and be forgotten because to remove the scar only causes more damage--like too many facelifts renders the face (forever) unrecognizable.
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