Skip to main content

Books on Friday

 Jami Attenberg attended Johns Hopkins, where she was sexually assaulted. She was discouraged from reporting the incident, but she made a report.


Various deans came to Attenberg with an option: You can have the guy expelled, or you can allow him to attend weekly therapy sessions. At this point, vicious rumors were circulating with regard to Attenberg. She didn't want to ruin a life. She chose the weekly therapy sessions.

A year later, after Attenberg had attempted suicide, she was connected with her own series of therapy sessions. The sessions didn't achieve anything, and Attenberg stopped going, and no one seemed to notice.

What followed was heavy drug use and aimlessness. Attenberg wrote three novels, then her publisher dumped her. A fourth novel found its way to Jonathan Franzen; this happened by accident. Franzen offered a blurb--and his two sentences changed the course of Attenberg's career.

But success wasn't simple. Attenberg describes a particular reading; at the end, a man approached and said, "You remind me of my daughter. She is a narcissist, like you." Attenberg tried teaching; bluntly, she told herself she was failing, she was wasting her students' money. Like any other writer, Attenberg is consumed with self-doubt; imagine her discomfort when she presented her new manuscript to her boyfriend, and he didn't read it. And didn't read it. And didn't read it.

Attenberg's memoir is (weirdly) disorganized; you're rarely entirely sure which decade you're visiting. On the other hand, Attenberg's honesty is a gift; she doesn't let herself off the hook. This makes her good company. And it's easy to see yourself in Attenberg's words; whenever someone tells the truth, she is narrating not just her own life, but, also, *all* lives. (We're all essentially the same.)

This led me to think about at least one other memoir; soon, I'll tackle "No One Gets to Fall Apart," by Sarah LaBrie.
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...
3 comments
Read more

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...
1 comment
Read more

My Favorite Pop Song

  One thing I admire about Prince is his weirdly pretentious verses: Dream, if you can, a courtyard-- An ocean of violets in bloom. Also: Touch, if you will, my stomach. Feel how it trembles inside. No one else writes like this. Did people try to shoot down these choices? Did a producer say, "We'd like to rethink this one... Touch, if you will, my stomach...."  I can't help but wonder. But it's the chorus that makes this a classic. It's direct and universal--and it ends with that bizarre flourish, the allusion to "the crying doves." (Prince's song was number one in America for quite a while; it defeated Bruce Springsteen's "Dancing in the Dark.") How can you just leave me standing-- Alone in a world that's so cold? Maybe I'm just too demanding. Maybe I'm just like my father--too bold. Maybe you're just like my mother; She's never satisfied. Why do we scream at each other? This is what it sounds like when doves cr...
Post a Comment
Read more