Was intrigued by the Goodreads interview with Burroughs. See excerpt below:Q: What do you think fans of your other books will find most surprising about this new one?A: Hmmm, well. Probably the fact that Wolf isn't a funny book.... People often say to me after reading Running with Scissors, "Wow, you had such a terrible childhood." And I always think, "But those were the good years." Essentially, I served dessert first. It's time now for dinner.

Reviewed by Mrs. Foley
Summary from Follett--"Presents a memoir of Augusten Burroughs' relationship with his father, which consisted of abuse, aloofness and betrayal."

Intense book, but doesn't come across as disturbing as Running With Scissors. It is a good portrayal of how a child can be abused even when it is not physically. The emotional toll on Augusten of having a father who never showed him any love and terrified his mother and Augusten is devastating. Would be a great book to discuss in a psychology/sociology class. ( )

(Reprinted from the Chicago Center for Literature and Photography [cclapcenter.com]. I am the original author of this essay, as well as the owner of CCLaP; it is not being reprinted here illegally.)

I've mentioned here regularly the entire idea of there being an "underground-arts canon;" that is, that just like the academic community, what we call the modern cutting-edge arts has now been around long enough (arguably since the early 1900s) that we can now say, "If you want to consider yourself well-versed on the subject, you need to make sure to read this person and this person and this person." This is a hugely important subject among intellectuals, after all, because that's what intellectualism is mostly based on in the first place; of that entire group of deep thinkers coming together and collectively deciding what is most important to their group, of what most directly and profoundly helps any intelligent person understand what that group is all about. And thus in the last year and a half have I been desperately trying to fill in the holes of such a canon in my own life; for those who don't know, see, I spent the 15 years before opening CCLaP not as an academe but as an actual working artist, so mostly spent those years actually photographing and writing instead of reading and studying. It's important that I fill in these intellectual gaps now, precisely because I am trying to be a full-time arts critic these days, because it matters with artistic criticism just how much you know about the subject; and thus it is that I'm constantly having to admit these days to a woeful lack of exposure to this artist or that, as I finally make my way through the first of their projects and talk about them here at the site.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, brings us to gay Generation X memoirist Augusten Burroughs; because Burroughs is precisely one of these shining lights of the so-called "contemporary canon," according to his fans, one of those "must-read" authors you absolutely need to be familiar with, in order to understand the contemporary underground arts in any kind of sophisticated way whatsoever. His work has previously always simply eluded my attention, for whatever reason; before last week, not only had I never read any of his books, I hadn't even seen the slick high-budget 2006 Hollywood adaptation that was made of his first bestseller, the horrifically comedic / comedically horrific coming-of-age tale Running with Scissors, much less the four other freaking personal memoirs written since or the absurdist novel written before. And whether you like him or hate him, the simple fact is that my non-knowledge of his work is a weakness for me as a critic and book reviewer; there are simply so many people familiar with his books by now, so many references made in other literary reviews to his manuscripts, that any decent reporter of the underground needs to make sure they're familiar with him, for no other reason than so they're on the same page as other lovers of the underground.

And it's all this, of course, that made it even such a bigger shock than normal when I actually sat down and read two of Burroughs' memoirs, his oldest (the aforementioned Scissors from 2002) and newest (A Wolf at the Table, from 2008), and realized the following: "Oh my God, Augusten Burroughs' memoirs f-cking suck." How can this be?, any intelligent person will ask at that moment -- how can it be that these books have had so much praise heaped on them over the years, when they turn out to be such weak excuses for compelling literature? Has there been...what, a massive hypnotic spell placed over all the people who gush and gush about the stirring prose and fascinating storylines found within? Has the collective lack of education and anti-intellectual stirrings of Neocon America over the last thirty years finally hit its tipping point, with the American populace simply no longer able to distinguish good books from bad ones? Is that what happened? Or is it that Burroughs got in during the last gasp of an artistic movement that we now consider trite and passe, exactly the "Generation X" house-of-cards I mentioned earlier, and thus suffers the dated wrath of a veteran like Douglas Coupland but at a fraction of the time?

Because let's make no mistake -- when the snotty pop-culture historians of the future think back to these days, and specifically the whole New Age middle-class suburban Oprah Hillary "It Takes A Village" politically-correct pink-ribbon crowd, they will think of Augusten Burroughs. Because that's basically what both of these books are, through and through, from the first page to ostensibly the last; they are whiny, victim-oriented, badly-written, semi-made-up so-called "true stories" about just how bad poor little Augusten has had it his whole whimsically funny life, of how every terrible thing that's ever happened to him is everyone else's fault but his own, and how by the way all those bad things just happened to be poetically poignant and contained the exact kind of dialogue that makes middle-aged suburban Oprah-worshipping pink-ribbon-wearing New Age soccer moms swoon. Nice coincidence, that!

And in fact, that brings up one of the first and ultimately biggest problems I encountered with Burroughs' work, when I tried to make my way through it for the first time last week; that it simply comes off as untrue, as made-up, not exactly a lie under the legal definition of the term, but definitely "cutsied up" so bad that it might as well be a fictional story. Because, see, for those who don't know, both of the books under review today supposedly cover Burroughs' early childhood among dysfunctional hippies in the "let it all hang out" 1970s, a series of vignettes that he actually writes from the mindset and viewpoint of that particular age; so in other words, if he's recalling an event from when he was five years old, he actually writes it as a five-year-old would supposedly see it. And in that manner, Burroughs essentially gets to have his cake and eat it too; he gets to say outrageously offensive things about all the real people around him at that time in his life, absurdly unprovable things that rely as much on magical realism as...you know, realism, while still having the convenient James-Frey Oprahesque New-Age excuse of, "I'm a writer, and I'm paid to write about how something felt. And this is how these events felt to me. And it doesn't matter if what I say is exactly true or not, not from a factual standpoint, because they are factual accounts of how I felt at that moment, or perhaps how I felt thirty years later when looking back on it through the filter of a mainstream publishing contract and looming deadline."

I think it's very telling, for example, that his own parents freaking sued him for defamation when Scissors came out*, but that this hasn't stopped any of these publishing companies from continuing to put out, put out, put out yet another semi-crap childhood memoir and yet another semi-crap childhood memoir by him. Because simply, we live in an age where a huge majority of the American public can no longer distinguish fact from fiction -- an age where over 50 percent of all Americans believe that The DaVinci Code is a true story, an age where over 50 percent of all Americans believe that The Secret is a true story. And that's because our country's educational system has been steadily crumbling since the end of World War Two, since the moment the US first started embracing the military-industrial complex, and first started diverting more and more of our national budget away from everything else and towards the military. No one gets a decent education in the United States anymore, critics claim, not unless they seek one out as an adult as the theory goes; and therefore most Americans are no longer even educated enough to understand the difference between true and made-up, the difference between science and "Intelligent Design" (i.e. "Creationism" with a new name), the difference between "memoir" and "sh-t I pulled out of my ass that sounds all tragic and crap, and that no one can exactly either prove or disprove."

And that's why earlier, I said that I was only guessing at what was the "ostensible" endings of these books; because to admit the absolute truth, I only made it about halfway through Running With Scissors before finally giving up, and couldn't even get thirty pages into A Wolf at the Table without doing the same. And seriously, Mr. Burroughs, if you just happen to ever come across this review -- I understand that writers with unique voices are easy to parody, precisely because they have unique voices, but do you really have to make it so damn tempting as well?

"Me. Pre-natal. What are these fleshy jail-cell walls that hold me in so tightly? Probably the result of my mother, of course, the cocktail-swilling fool. I wish to yell at her, wish to express my disgust at her smothering yet cold presence. But then I realize -- Oh yes, that's right, I'm a fetus. I'm not yet capable of advanced thought or human speech. So why is it that I'm already so eerily attracted to the Six Million Dollar Man?"

UGH. It's writers like Augusten Burroughs that makes me want to turn my entire back on Generation X in general, despite me actually being a member of Generation X; it's books like these that makes me understand why kids currently in their twenties hate me and my friends so much, of why they feel the desire to angrily vomit whenever the subjects of tattoos or Pearl Jam are brought up. I have a feeling that history will look on Burroughs a little more kindly, as simply a result of what our entire times encouraged; as someone, though, who's kind of had his fill for now of that moment of history, may I please be the first one to stand up in public and urge you to skip over the ouevre of Augusten Burroughs. Ten years from now, he will be retro and cute, the sign of a time that has now passed; but right now, he's mostly maddening and infuriating, the exact poster boy for why you should no longer trust anyone over the age of forty. It was a surprise, a real surprise, to learn about this otherwise highly respected author; a reminder that nothing is ever as it first seems when it comes to the underground arts, which of course is why at the cusp of forty myself I still find it so important to listen to the underground arts, to listen to what all those angry drunken twenty-year-olds have to say. I'm sure that Burroughs will eventually be seen as important; I'm just not sure at this point whether he should be considered relevant, especially at this particular moment in artistic history. Proper caution is advised with all of his books.

Out of 10: 1.9

*And for the sake of legality, let me inform you that the family defamation suit mentioned earlier was settled privately out of court earlier this year; an undisclosed amount of money was exchanged between child and parents as a result, and Burroughs agreed to call the manuscript in the future simply a "book" instead of a "memoir." ( )

I liked Running with Scissors and the movie that was made from it. I liked Magical Thinking less. I liked Possible Side Effects even less. I don't know why I even bother reading any of his work anymore because I obviously don't really like it. I really didn't like this book. I was bored the entire time, wishing that he would stop whining about how his dad didn't love him. I kept waiting for the big shocking revelation that would make the reason for the book clear. It never came. While the writing was good, the subject matter was beyond self-indulgent and bordering on scary obsessive. ( )

I enjoyed this...a bit self-indulgent (what memoir isn't?) and could have used a little more fleshing-out, or even unfounded speculation on the father character, but still good. ( )

I enjoyed this...a bit self-indulgent (what memoir isn't?) and could have used a little more fleshing-out, or even unfounded speculation on the father character, but still good. ( )

I enjoyed this...a bit self-indulgent (what memoir isn't?) and could have used a little more fleshing-out, or even unfounded speculation on the father character, but still good. ( )

I had read both Running with Scissors, and dry. But I listened to this one on audio, and was caught up in the emotion of his telling the story. ( )

A sad memoir of a boy suffering from the rejection of his father. Then mental abuse this boy faces is a terrible tragedy that no child should suffer through. As it ruins his family he is forced to watch his world around him burn and ignore him. ( )

This memoir of horrendous mental abuse by psychotic parents has much to recommend it if you can stomach the constant emotional pain inflicted on that child. At a minimum, one could say his mother was suicidal and his father was an alcoholic. But there was more: the ongoing threat of violence clinging to the house like a bad odor; a stench of fear; at the best of times neglect, at the worst, verbal violence; and perhaps, something else – the part the author does not, cannot remember.

Burrough’s ability to remember some events of his childhood so vividly, and to have blocked out others rings true, and is mesmerizing in its selectivity.

His longing for his father’s love was so palpable that as a child he stuffed a spare set of his father’s clothing and hugged it at night to get to sleep. He began to wish for his father’s death almost as passionately as he wished for his love. His mother pointed out to him the curious anomaly that he pronounced “Dad” as “Dead.” And yet he himself is determined to survive. He writes:

“I knew I had an ugly life. I knew I was lonely and I was scared. I thought something might be wrong with my father, wrong in the worst possible way. I believed he might contain a pathology of the mind – an emptiness – a knocking hollow where his soul should have been. But I also knew that one day, I would grow up. One day, I would be twenty, or thirty, or forty, even fifty and sixty and seventy and eighty and maybe even one hundred years old. And all those years were mine, they belonged to nobody but me. So even if I was unhappy now, it could all change tomorrow. … Maybe, I thought, I don’t need a father to be happy. Maybe, what you get from a father you can get somewhere else, from somebody else, later. Or maybe you can just work around what’s missing, build the house of your life over the hole that is there and always will be.”

Burroughs is a poetic writer; one wishes he were not damaged and could apply his talent to a more uplifting tale. ( )

A Wolf at the Table is my first exposure to the work of Augusten Burroughs. I’ve neither read Running with Scissors (2002), nor seen the film (2006) based on the memoir. My understanding is that Running with Scissors focuses on the bond between Augusten Burroughs and his mother (”Deirdre”), much as A Wolf at the Table focuses on the lack of bond between the author and his father (”John”).

A Wolf at the Table is a raw portrait from the innocence of a child’s eye. Burroughs shares the exquisite details of his first memories. This toddler’s joy at his homemade telescope soon gives way to despair when Burroughs realizes that the five words he hears nightly from his father, “very much I love you,” are spoken mechanically with no intrinsic emotion.

He is so starved for his father’s affections that Burroughs makes a card for him, hoping to win positive attention with words pasted from magazine advertisements: “Love. Belong. New. Exciting. Delicious. Father. Together. Happy. Welcome home!” This attempt is tossed to the side after little more than a cursory glance from John. When the 7-year-old child sees the casual but heart-felt love John gives the family dog, Burroughs tries to elicit a similar response by crafting a dog mask and crawling around the floor on all fours.

We see scores of examples of the young boy reaching out to his father, only to be angrily rebuffed or summarily ignored. Burroughs may be looking for any kind of love from his father; for his part, Burroughs continues to dole out unconditional love time and again.

At one point Burroughs sees that John has something of a split personality. Burroughs suffered from chronic stomach aches as a child, likely brought on by nervousness in response to discord at home. His father had a constant psoriatic rash, with thin peeling skin which often flaked and bled. The metaphor of decay is further carried throughout the home, with a rotting deck, overgrown yard, and often bare cupboards.

Deirdre makes some attempt to protect Augusten Burroughs from his father’s wrath (at the worst), or to make peace and bring them together (in more benign times). Ultimately she also suffers from social phobias and leaves him to fend for himself:

A Wolf at the Table is a quick read, but a disturbing read; I’m eager to read Running with Scissors to learn more about what forces continued to shape Burroughs during his adolescence. When we meet the author as an adult toward the end of Wolf, he seems to suffer mentally and physically. I hope that he is healthy and managing the scrutiny these books put on his past.

full review at www.sheIsTooFondOfBooks.com
She is Too Fond of Books ( )

I know of Augusten Burroughs through the film adaptation of his memoir, Running with Scissors. Having seen the film, it is unlikely that I will read the book. So when I saw that he had written another memoir, it stirred my interest. A Wolf at the Table is about his life as a child living with this parents and his brother. If one wonders how a teenager comes to live with his mother's batty therapist and his kooky family, it becomes abundantly clear in this intimate and gripping recollection of an abuse-ridden childhood.

Burroughs' father was an alcoholic prone to violent outbursts and later to psychotic episodes. Despite this terror, Burroughs' craved his father's attention and love. One of the most compelling elements of this abuse is the devastation he feels due to the selfish disinterest and inattention of his father. He relates instance after instance in which he tries to illicit a positive emotional response from his father, and each time he is turned away. While more loving and available, his mother nevertheless was distant and preoccupied.

Burroughs' writing is understated yet poignant. It evoked emotion not because of the tragedy of the story but through the portrayal of the world through a fearful and confused child's eyes. The thoughts that run through a little boy's mind when faced with the turmoil of abuse and psychological disorder roused empathy and stirred rage. In the end he did not, as he feared, become like his father, yet he has still not fully recovered from the terror and neglect.

Collection of essays about Augusten's childhood and later interactions with his father. Augusten is upbeat about his experiences, but they seem horrific.

A dark twisted recount of a disturbed childhood with a sociopath father who refuses to show interest or affection in his youngest son. It's a moving story that is horrifying to imagine being real. A must read that will cause any father to pick up sons or daughters and kiss them over and over. ( )

As in his other books, Burroughs leaves the reader in awe of how much a child in abusive situations can tolerate, and live to tell it in an honest and penetrating way. I, too, suffered psychological abuse but not to this degree, and would never be able to describe it in such a way that Burroughs is able to do. Terrifying relationships are described, and the reader will feel a part of this pain as it is told, and yet wonder at what point Burroughs might have escaped. And to whom, or to which part of his environment? All very good reading, and absolute important for everyone to read this to see what is really happening in some families. Abuse still goes on, and children still are not properly protected, and would never know how to get out of such a family environment. This heightens awareness, thankfully.

Very dark and disturbing book about alcoholic father. ( )

Like a true stephen king novel only true ( )

Absent is the humor of Burroughs's previous books; this is a harrowing, damning tale of the cold, vicious man who was his father. That he survived is a testimony to his enduring spirit. Difficult to read. ( )

In this book Augusten Burroughs illuminates for all of his fans his early childhood prior to "Running With Scissors". This memoir focuses more on his father and his role during those early years. As always Burroughs is sarcastic, witty, and vulnerable. One is usually left not knowing whether to laugh or to cry. ( )

Augusten Burroughs wasn't hugged enough as a child - it makes for an irritating read. Skip this one. ( )

Although I'm usually a fan of Burroughs' work, this book left me with a bad feeling. His memoir about his father and, specifically, how awful his father was as a human being, wasn't very interesting. The entire time I was reading the book, all I could think was "what is he trying to do with this book?" Is he trying to make the reader feel sorry for him? Is he trying to get the reader to agree with him about how awful his father was?

The book just felt like one big "woe is me." Not recommended. ( )

I just began reading this, I love this author's satire. ( )

“I knew I had an ugly life. I knew I was lonely and I was scared. I thought something might be wrong with my father, wrong in the worst possible way. I believed he might contain a pathology of the mind -- an emptiness -- a knocking hollow where his soul should have been. But I also knew that one day, I would grow up. One day, I would be twenty, or thirty, or forty, even fifty and sixty and seventy and eighty and maybe even one hundred years old. And all those years were mine, they belonged to nobody but me. So even if I was unhappy now, it could all change tomorrow. Maybe I didn't need to jump off the cliff to experience that kind of freedom. Maybe the fact that I knew such freedom existed in the world meant that I could someday find it.Maybe, I thought, I don't need a father to be happy. Maybe what you get from a father you can get somewhere else, from somebody else, later. Or maybe you can just work around what's missing, build the house of your life over the hole that is there and always will be.” ( )

I had always heard about Burroughs' Running with Scissors but had never read it. Now I think I understand the hype. He can tell one heck of a story. This is his recollection of his father. His dad was a professor who had mood swings and drank too much. It wasn't that he physically abused Augusten (much), but it was his inattentiveness that destroyed Burroughs. He tried so hard to get his father to pay attention to him, but it never worked. His dad just didn't care. Even when Burroughs was older and in his first apartment, he couldn't get much out of his dad. It's sad. But Burroughs isn't writing his own pity party. Because he eventually works out that he can be a good person without a good father. He won't turn into his dad because he cares not to. And that's what matters. A good memoir to give people hope. ( )

I enjoyed Burroughs previous works. This is not as light-hearted as his other books, but just as compelling and horrific. This is a dark book -- if you haven't read his book "Running with Scissors", then read that first and then this one. They are essentially book-ends about his years as a child growing up, not just about his life, but his evolution as a writer as well. ( )