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It's
hard to know what to do with a writer like Augusten Burroughs—a
talented, seemingly well-adjusted author with one of the most
eccentric, tangled pasts ever captured in memoir. Burroughs
has already chronicled his teenage years living with his mother's
psychiatrist's family (Running With Scissors), as well
as his problems with alcoholism during his twenties (Dry),
and a motley mix of stories from his previous career in advertising
(Magical Thinking and Possible Side Effects). Now,
in his newest effort, A Wolf at the Table, Burroughs
delves into the sometimes downright scary moments of his childhood
and his struggle to create a relationship with his father.
It should
be said from the start that A Wolf at the Table is
not exactly a comedy. Burroughs has consistently portrayed
his father—the late John G. Robison, a minister-turned-agnostic
philosophy professor—as a shadow-like figure, shrouded
in a sort of tepid mystery, and one half of Burroughs' eclectic
gene pool.
Burroughs
sheds a dim light on his younger self at times, portraying
himself as the innocent victim of ill-paired parents: a clinging
mother and a distant father. In fact, Burroughs does a pretty
good job of portraying his father as the proverbial wolf:
covered in bleeding sores as a result of psoriatic arthritis,
Robison is blamed for killing Augusten's pet guinea pig and
turning the family dog into a ferocious monster. In chapter
after chapter, young Augusten throws himself in his father's
way in desperate attempts for even a little acknowledgement,
and again and again his father rebukes him with the bluntness
of a brick wall.
And Burroughs
does not hesitate to lay it on thick. Among the brief anecdotes,
a seven-year-old Augusten crafts a sort of dummy-dad: towels
stuffed into his father's slacks and t-shirts imbued with
his father's cologne. Over the course of several months, the
young Augusten brings out the dummy when he needs his father's
physical presence to curl into or hug.
"It
was an acceptable substitute," Burroughs writes. "The father
body had an intoxicating effect on me, and if I had spoken,
my words would have been slurred."
It might
have been an easier arrangement for Burroughs to have slapped
a "fiction" label on the cover for all the skepticism Wolf
will undoubtedly provoke, as he does nothing if not painstakingly
detail every moment of particular arguments and recollections,
some occurring when he was under three years old. It's not
so much that readers may not believe the tragedies that unfurl,
but that the build-up and tailored conclusions imply much
more serious contemplation and analysis than a typical ten-year-old
is capable of exacting. The result is that modestly authentic
events are no sooner a part of the reader's consciousness
than they are passively picked apart. While this seems beneficial,
it also cheapens the overall image of the younger Augusten
who tends to read as if he has foresight well beyond his years.
The only
comic relief comes in the form of Burroughs' characterization
of his younger self, an admittedly precocious and over-dramatic
though pretty much normal kid. In trying to go back and forth
between young and older Augusten, Burroughs is rife with metaphor
that doesn't always take the intended path. During a vacation
scene, Burroughs stages a sensationalized imagining of his
father falling off a steep cliff that seems more theatrical
than emotional or even scary:
I
opened my mouth and my throat and I made the loudest sound
I had ever made or ever heard. Even as the scream left
my own body, I felt in awe of my ability to sustain the
note. There was a beauty to the scream, it was something
of an accomplishment. I was like a lighthouse standing
there on the cliff, my voice a warning to all the ships
at sea.
There
is no doubt throughout A Wolf at the Table that Burroughs's
relationship with his father was, at best, caught in a stranglehold.
Even as his father is dying, Burroughs shows up at Robison's
deathbed apparently still expecting his father to come around
and deliver even a slight bit of remorse or good will. Burroughs
writes the following:
To
my brother, he had said, 'You've been a good boy, a good
son.' And to me he'd said nothing. He would not, at the
very end, give me even one word. And standing there, I
felt a sense of loss. Not for myself but for him. He had
missed so much not knowing me. He had denied himself the
greatest accomplishment—just to be a dad.
This
may be the most authentic part in the entire book--that even
on his deathbed, Robison was unsympathetic and reticent. Despite
a small introduction of Robison in the beginning, there is
little prodding into his life outside of the house. Is it
truly possible that Robison, who was able to maintain a lengthy
career and second marriage, was an amazing Jekyll-and-Hyde-like
psychopath or was he just a jerk at home? It is clear that
Burroughs tends to favor the former, and with Wolf
as evidence, it seems wrong to disagree, but for good measure,
he also includes portions of Robison's diary which seem to
indicate a certain degree of ill-leveled game-playing typically
to the detriment of Augusten. Despite the overwhelming desire
to jump on Team Burroughs, the line between is decidedly blurred.
Though
Burroughs has always been a writer who brings the drama, A
Wolf at the Table seems contrived and possibly even too
self-centered for a memoir. Where is there to go when even
the metaphors lack their usual punch? When the outside deck
molds and crumbles just as the family falls into disrepair,
it comes off in this reading as too convenient to take seriously.
Those who keep up with Burroughs have read better. If there
is one bit of wisdom to take away from A Wolf at the Table,
it is this: There is no changing who you are. For Augusten
Burroughs, this law is apparently both a gift and a curse;
something to have triumphed over despite its overwhelming
impact on his life.
(July
2008)
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