Indiana remarks that his memories are “colored by mood and contingency.” The mood of this memoir is mostly rueful, bitter,...
A writer, filmmaker, playwright, and artist recalls his past.
In this ironically titled memoir, Indiana (Andy Warhol and the Can that Sold the World, 2010, etc.) gives little evidence of love but much graphic detail of sex, focused often on comparative penis sizes and tumescence. Although he claims to have “an unshakeable sense of utter insignificance,” being “too peculiar to figure importantly in anyone’s life, including my own,” his voice throughout tends to be supercilious. Indiana characterizes his parents as “emotionally constipated,” creating an environment that prepared him “for absolutely nothing.” Growing up within “a swamp of human wreckage tainted by alcohol,” any problem, he was taught, “was other people’s fault.” Early sexual experiences with boys left him believing that “sodomy was an arcane, specialized perversion, like bestiality.” In his 20s, he was subject to panic attacks and depression; pickups did not fulfill his “pinching wish for attachment.” In late-1960s California, Indiana “lived on no money, with no fixed address, becoming a ward of whatever boyfriend or commune whose orbit I drifted into,” usually connected to his friend Ferd, a political activist and porno filmmaker. In those years, writes the author, psychedelic drugs “were taken like aspirin…and heroin users were seen as the truly daring souls, more ‘seriously’ troubled than aimless run-of-the-mill LSD dropouts.” Ferd often sent him to emergency rooms to steal syringes, errands he performed with alacrity. Later, living in Cuba, the author had an affair—“a complete pornographic fantasy”—with a sexually energetic deaf mute, a relationship he quickly found “tiresome.” Among those singled out for scorn is Susan Sontag: arrogant, “exasperating,” a woman whose “chronic aesthetic gourmandizing filled her with a histrionic rapture that required live witnesses.” David Lynch was humorless, boring, and “smarmy.”
Indiana remarks that his memories are “colored by mood and contingency.” The mood of this memoir is mostly rueful, bitter, and sad.Pub Date: Sept. 8, 2015
ISBN: 978-0-8478-4686-3
Page Count: 240
Publisher: Rizzoli Ex Libris
Review Posted Online: June 27, 2015
Kirkus Reviews Issue: July 15, 2015
BOOK REVIEW
BOOK REVIEW
BOOK REVIEW
IN THE NEWS
A moving meditation on mortality by a gifted writer whose dual perspectives of physician and patient provide a singular...
A neurosurgeon with a passion for literature tragically finds his perfect subject after his diagnosis of terminal lung cancer.
Writing isn’t brain surgery, but it’s rare when someone adept at the latter is also so accomplished at the former. Searching for meaning and purpose in his life, Kalanithi pursued a doctorate in literature and had felt certain that he wouldn’t enter the field of medicine, in which his father and other members of his family excelled. “But I couldn’t let go of the question,” he writes, after realizing that his goals “didn’t quite fit in an English department.” “Where did biology, morality, literature and philosophy intersect?” So he decided to set aside his doctoral dissertation and belatedly prepare for medical school, which “would allow me a chance to find answers that are not in books, to find a different sort of sublime, to forge relationships with the suffering, and to keep following the question of what makes human life meaningful, even in the face of death and decay.” The author’s empathy undoubtedly made him an exceptional doctor, and the precision of his prose—as well as the moral purpose underscoring it—suggests that he could have written a good book on any subject he chose. Part of what makes this book so essential is the fact that it was written under a death sentence following the diagnosis that upended his life, just as he was preparing to end his residency and attract offers at the top of his profession. Kalanithi learned he might have 10 years to live or perhaps five. Should he return to neurosurgery (he could and did), or should he write (he also did)? Should he and his wife have a baby? They did, eight months before he died, which was less than two years after the original diagnosis. “The fact of death is unsettling,” he understates. “Yet there is no other way to live.”
A moving meditation on mortality by a gifted writer whose dual perspectives of physician and patient provide a singular clarity.Pub Date: Jan. 19, 2016
ISBN: 978-0-8129-8840-6
Page Count: 248
Publisher: Random House
Review Posted Online: Sept. 29, 2015
Kirkus Reviews Issue: Oct. 15, 2015
PERSPECTIVES
The author's youthfulness helps to assure the inevitable comparison with the Anne Frank diary although over and above the...
Elie Wiesel spent his early years in a small Transylvanian town as one of four children.
He was the only one of the family to survive what Francois Maurois, in his introduction, calls the "human holocaust" of the persecution of the Jews, which began with the restrictions, the singularization of the yellow star, the enclosure within the ghetto, and went on to the mass deportations to the ovens of Auschwitz and Buchenwald. There are unforgettable and horrifying scenes here in this spare and sombre memoir of this experience of the hanging of a child, of his first farewell with his father who leaves him an inheritance of a knife and a spoon, and of his last goodbye at Buchenwald his father's corpse is already cold let alone the long months of survival under unconscionable conditions.
Pub Date: Jan. 16, 2006
ISBN: 0374500010
Page Count: 120
Publisher: Hill & Wang
Review Posted Online: Oct. 7, 2011
Kirkus Reviews Issue: Jan. 15, 2006
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