I just finished reading Augusten Burroughs’ memoir, Running with Scissors, and I must say I couldn’t get it over with soon enough. I’m one of those quirky folks that believes once I start a book, I am almost obligated to finish it. That was more often than not a struggle with this one.
Burroughs’ use of humor and wit is extremely well done but the vulgarity splashed throughout the pages was just a bit more than I wanted to deal with and was truly on the verge of overkill. Shocking revelations strewn here and there with such graphic detail wouldn’t be so bad but it kept needlessly popping up all over the book. Frankly, I got tired of it and the shock value wore off quickly for me.
What a shame that Burroughs didn’t lean more heavily on his obvious literary prowess to tell what could have been a most engaging and entertaining story. His “childhood” was certainly the stuff books are made of but he missed the mark with this one.