Review: A Million Little Pieces

(Note: Originally posted May 23, 2003)

When you see the gloves come off in the literary world, you can't help but rubberneck. In the pre-publication interviews for his memoir, A Million Little Pieces, James Frey not only took some unprovoked jabs at writers Dave Eggers, Jonathan Safran Foer, and David Foster Wallace, but he stated unequivocally that he would be the best writer of his generation. All of this from a man who had yet to publish a book when he made his statements.

Ironically, A Million Little Pieces opens on a man stripped of his ego, waking from the stupor of a weeks-long alcohol and drug bender to find himself on an airplane unable to figure out where he is going or where he has been, his face smashed in from a fall that resulted in the loss of four of his front teeth. He's a twenty-three year old addict of nearly every drug, returning first to his parents and then promptly being placed in a rehab center. From that point, both James and the reader have the past clarified in short, often painful slices of flashback and dialogue with various people ranging from a recovering crack addict/former prostitute love interest to an alcoholic Louisiana judge to a Las Vegas mobster. All of this takes place in a rehab center under the auspices of recovery-speak. Through the course of the book, James has major dental surgery without anesthesia, picks numerous fights with just about anyone who crosses his path (and a few who don't), rejects any hint of AA and God, yet comes to terms with his ego and the Fury (that which makes him often proclaim: "I am an Alcoholic and I am a Drug Addict and I am a Criminal"). By comparing himself to others around him, evaluating himself by their addictions and their recovery, James shapes his own theory of self, of addiction, and of sobriety. While listening to one of the daily “Lectures” he must suffer through—this one led by an unnamed “Rock Star” who sounds a bit like Steven Tyler—Frey’s understanding of what it means to be an addict develops:

An Addict is an addict. It doesn’t matter whether the Addict is white, black, yellow or green, rich or poor or somewhere in the middle, the most famous Person on the Planet or the most unknown. It doesn’t matter whether the addiction is drugs, alcohol, crime, sex, shopping, food, gambling, television, or the fucking Flinstones. The life of the addict is always the same. There is no excitement, no glamour, no fun. There are no good times, there is no joy, there is no happiness. There is no future and no escape. There is only an obsession. An all-encompassing, fully enveloping, completely overwhelming obsession.

Without a doubt, this is book is a difficult read, both in terms of the writing style and the subject matter. I, too, am a recovering alcoholic. Like Frey, I couldn't fathom kicking my habit with the help of AA and for many of the same reasons (obstinance, unwillingness to accept or believe in a "higher power," etc.). A lot of what Frey deals with reminded me of that part of my life where the urge to drink was much stronger than the desire to stay sober. By the end of the book, Frey has won over the people that are most skeptical, the ones who believed he would fail without the 12 steps. Most importantly, though, he wins over himself. In the first hours of his release from the center (where he will then head to a short prison term for beating up a cop in his "previous life") he will insist on stopping at a bar. It is this scene where Frey as a writer is most effective.

I have a decision to make. It is a simple decision. It has nothing to do with God or Twelve of anything other than twelve beats of my heart. Yes or no. It is simple decision. Yes or No. I look into myself. Into the pale green of my own eyes. I like what I see. I am comfortable with it. It is fixed and focused. It will not blink. For the first time in my life, as I look into my own eyes, I like what I see. I can live with it. For a long time. I want to live with it. I want to live.

Do I think Frey has the potential to be the best writer of this generation? It is possible. But he has a long ways to go. For me this book seemed more forced than natural. The seemingly arbitrary capitalization of words, the lack of punctuation, the omission of dialogue tags, quotation marks, and one single indention in the entire novel not only made the reading difficult at times but it also tended to make it seem derivative. There are points where this worked, where the discomfort of the reader with the style/design matched the discomfort of the subject matter, but overall it just creates some undue distractions. For some reason, I felt I was reading an avid practitioner of Kerouac’s list of essentials for spontaneous prose; or rather, someone who may have been given the list and told “See #13, Remove literary, grammatical and syntactical inhibition….” But I’ll give Mr. Frey his due. He’s written a memoir worthy of a read. And besides, I really don’t feel like getting my ass kicked right now.

Comments

[lestie]

I personally enjoyed the book.
Although was slightly dissapointed when hearing it wasn't all true.The reason i enjoyed the book so much,was due to the honesty,strength,hardship and courage it showed.I'll look faward to the next book that James may release.

warm regards
Celeste

[melissa hepler]

I loved the book.Reading it got me through a rough time in my life.I am a recoving addict myself.I found myself in jail because of choices I made and I found myself reading it and helping me get through.I am getting over a co-depent relationship that was filled with drugs,lies and bad choices.My ex is presently in a rehab somewhere in northern new jersey and now that I am clean I can only hope he has the opptunity to read A million little pieces.As a recovering addict,I think we all find alittle piece of our selves in James book.I am currently reading My friend Lenord.
So, good job James,you have touched me.

[Anna]

This piece of shit novel should never have been published.
Let me call attention to this bit:
"A place i dont talk about or acknowledge exists. A place where there is only me. A place that I hate. I am alone. Alone here and alone in the world. Alone in my heart and alone in my mind. Alone everywhere, all the time, for as long as I can remember. Alone with my Family, alone with my friends, alone in a Room full of People. ETC ETC ETC for about another whole fucking page.
As far as I can see, the only thing he manages to communicate is that he feels alone. This author is a fuckhead. Okay, os obv he went through some bad times,okay, good for you, but why go and write THE SHITTIEST BOOK EVER WRITTTEN, the most pretentious, try hard, fake, self-pitying, maudlin PRETENTIOUS, pretentious piece of crap book? why write it, james frey? WHY?
its like, hes just written a bunch of inane sentences, going over and over and over and over the same point, and as he only knows about 4 adjectives, he's tries desperately to make it interesting by just taking out all the punctuation and repeating himself ENDLESSLY, and bizarrely capitalising random words whenever he feels that he's not being interesting enough. this book is RIDICULOUSLY BAD!!! for fucks sake. its paint by numbers man, its fucking stupid.
okay, so good for you if it gives you hope or whatever, but as an actual piece of literature its in the same catagory as those ubiquitous, generic "tragic life story" books. there is nothing of literary value in this. there is NO innovative use of language (not only has it been done before, it's been done before in an infinately more geniune and inspired way), there is no beauty in the book whatsoever. there is NO insight. all there is is ENDLESS self-pity and ridiculous swathes of repetitive moronic whinging page after page. it did not suprise me to learn that the majority of the events in this book were made up; i would also suggest that the narcisisstic self-exploratory "insights" into his mind are all made up too. where anyone else would feel a bit lonely, james frey spends 3 pages explaining that he is TRULY ALOONE, OH GOD, WHY AM I SO ALONE, IM ALONE IN A CROWDED ROOM!! sob, sob, sob, i'm a teenaged girl crying black tears that burn my innocent skin falling into a bathtub full of crimson tears etc etc etc.
FUCK THIS BOOK I HATE IT SO MUCH