Book #52 for 2015
It’s hard for me to find much to say about this book. As I listened to it, I kept thinking, This sounds like it ought to be intensely fascinating; I wonder why it’s so incredibly boring. It wasn’t that the writing was bad. Fuller’s prose is extremely well done, and a few scenes, like the snake in the pantry, really stick with me. But it turns out that the author was intentionally keeping her emotional distance from her own story, in some misguided attempt at objectivity. Intellectually, I can understand why she did that. It especially makes sense given the extent of the casual racism and family dysfunction pervading the book. But it pretty much ruined the story for me as a reader.
Oddly enough, Fuller’s failure to engage me with this memoir makes me all the more curious about her other works. I may just have to read one of them to see if I can relate to her at all.