To say that Augusten Burroughs had a perverse and psychologically twisted childhood is the definition of understatement. Here is what makes this book work and what also (perhaps) destroys it: Any idealistic notions about parenting, psychology, sexuality, maturity, and identity are so completely obliterated within the first 50 pages or so that you spend the rest of the text marveling at the sheer absurdity of it all. That Burroughs survived it is one thing, that he is able to tell the tale is a feat unto itself. Occasionally you get the sense that he is not involved in the action so much as drifting nearby, conveying a survival tactic of the moment that extends to how he writes. This is a life where the extremes are the norm and normalcy is longed for yet so foreign as to arouse something akin to suspicion. I'll recommend it, but it is not for the faint-hearted.Rating: flush.
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