A good thing about working where I do is that occasionaly the ‘staff freebie’ tub yeilds something half decent. I took advantage of this yesterday when I spotted a copy of A Million Little Pieces by James Frey. It is minus it’s back cover – as are most of those they are getting rid of, but you do not need to read a blurb when you are going to read the book.
A month or so ago we had this minor obsession from customers about getting hold of this book. It was recommended by Oprah (and I confess I’ve never really watched any, so I can’t complain legimately about how bad it is). The book is an autobiography about a drug addict.
The validity of ‘autobiography’ has recently come in to some speculation. My world will not change if 100% of the novel is not entirely true. I ususally read fiction anyway so I will treat it mostly as fiction regardless.
I have spent a goodly part of today utterly consumed.
This is not a good book, because that would be the wrong word, but a powerfully written book. My mind hurts from concentrating too hard and attempting to keep feelings arms distance away.
The Young Man came to the Old Man seeking counsel.
I broke something, Old Man.
How badly is it broken?
It’s in a million little pieces.
I’m afraid I can’t help you.
There’s nothing you can do.
It can’t be fixed.
It’s broken beyond repair. It’s in a million little pieces.