I read this book recently in about two to three days. It was pretty good. But I keep thinking about something a friend told me. What will it be like in fifty years when people look back on the 21st Century's glut of memoirs. Furthermore, I want to be one of them. I've got a gay memoir bubbling up inside me. But will people care by then? They've already read everything David Sedaris, Augusten Burroughs and Dan Savage have ever written.
What's most compelling, probably, about this memoir is the sheer volume of crack this man smokes. It's frightening and the weird sexual moments of his crack-obsessed downward spiral are merely hinted at and portrayed quickly and tastefully. A little more would've been appreciated. It was impressive the way that he wove a variety of settings, times and narrative strains fairly seamlessly, but the fact that he was a literary agent before he almost killed himself leaves a lot of us wondering; "Oh how nice to have literary agent friends to pick you up off the ground and reward you for your failures with a giant book deal." Maybe not us but me.
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