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Print this story Imagine all the terrible things that could possibly happen in childhood and you’ll find them in Augusten Burroughs’ newest memoir, “A Wolf at the Table: A Memoir of My Father.” Physical and mental child abuse. Spousal abuse. Animal abuse. Hints of sexual abuse. Malnutrition, guns, drugs, alcohol, decay, rape, illness and, yes, possibly even murder. Murder? Really? At its heart, this is the story of a sensitive boy desperate for attention from his distant, angry father. This is a sad, if not wholly unusual story. Throughout the first 100 pages you may think, “OK, so your father didn’t hug you enough.” But it gets worse, much worse, as we knew it would. Burroughs dishes out exactly what his readers probably wanted: unhappy episode after unhappy episode. “A Wolf at the Table” is not a pleasurable read. There is little humor and (thankfully) little dwelling on how his father’s actions made him feel. His father was quite possibly a very dangerous man and the events that Burroughs includes clearly make for a sad, lonely, confusing, scary childhood. But what is unclear is why we should want to read about it. Memoirs should explore some sort of new ground, challenge and explore notions of truth and telling the truth, how we remember and how these memories relate to universals. At the very least, they should tell a good story. “A Wolf at the Table” does none of these things. Without attempts at witty realizations, self-deprecating quips or utter strangeness so loved by critics and readers in “Running With Scissors,” the melodrama is utterly overwhelming. — Sara Rose, The Associated Press |
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