A Million Little Pieces
(James Frey)
The now well publicized downfall of author James Frey and his book of lies, A Million Little Pieces, has struck such an accord with the American people that most fail to remember what a stupid book it actually was. The "memoir" chronicles a supposed Frey's nightmarish decent from addicition to the pits of withdrawal and, eventually, back to the redemption of recovery, and a normal life. The first half is a mildly interesting read in the same way watching two people get into a fight is mildly amusing. It's intrigue is gained through the disgust that is visualizing someone go through multiple root canals with no novocaine (and various other maladies, from pissing blood to the burning, rotten sensation that accompanies vomiting bile). But as the book wobbles forward and Frey recovers, the quality of his writing seems to be go down as his life rises up. The dialogue is forced and, frankly, difficult to read. Every page is an epiphany and the self realization becomes tired and annoying. There is a love story too, which is out of place, sappy and stupid.
The only thing this book has going for it, is that it is an incredibaly easy and fast read. When it finally ends we are treated to a one sentence synopsis of what happened to all the characters. He stayed clean. He smoke crack again and died. She committed suicide.
It's almost as if Frey just got tired one day and decided to stop writing. But I was glad that he did.
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