while this has been the summer of cheever, it has also been the summer of biographies and memoirs. this was a gift from my dear v.
i've always enjoyed queenan's essays for their brutal and somewhat unreliable prose. but after finishing this book, i may not read anything by him again without a healthy dose of cynicism. while the writers of memoirs re: cruel and alcoholic parents have been part of my personal pantheon for years, i just can't admit queenan into this lauded circle. he writes much like a petulant child, angry at some points then whimsical at others. his vitriol for his parents (and deservedly so for his father) seems to wax nostalgic when it suits him. it also reads like several essays grouped together; he repeats stories, anecdotes and moments, sometimes living differently in another chapter.
his anger is palpable. and rightfully so. but i guess after reading this book, i was left thinking, why did you write this?
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