Though it probably doesn't concern him as to what you think, it's not too difficult to dislike James Frey. He fosters a constantly brash, arrogant, pretentious and stubborn attitude, visible in both his writing and his life.
Still, it is nearly impossible not to applaud him and the stunning literary accomplishment of his drug rehab memoir, "A Million Little Pieces."
The book begins with Frey waking up on a plane, not knowing how he got there and having little recollection of the previous two weeks.
In addition to being covered with blood and missing his four front teeth, he had a hole in the side of his cheek that would eventually require 41 stitches to repair. His parents await him at the terminal and promptly check him into a rehab center in Minnesota.
At 23, Frey's drug and alcohol use had pushed him to the brink of death. At that point he had been an alcoholic for 10 years and a cocaine and crack user since college.
He was wanted in up to three states for intent to sell, public indecency-the whole gambit. As one would imagine, his choices were limited: Get sober or die.
The sharp, broken prose is as intense as Frey's emotion. Early in the book, to repair his missing teeth, he is subjected to a root canal without the benefit of anesthesia. In five agonizing pages that toe the line of unreadable pain, Frey writes:
"The drill is back on and it is working through the fragment of my left tooth… At the point of penetration, a current shoots through my body that is not pain, or even close to pain, but something infinitely greater."
"Pieces" cannot be recommended as a seminar in self-help or a roadmap for recovery. In his stubbornness, Frey pretty much spits in the face of God and the 12 steps-many of his philosophies resonate with only the sound of a resounding gong.
However, watching his growth of self restraint and his refusal to blame his addictions on anyone but himself are entirely admirable. He's never suggestive of how to overcome addiction but merely relays his harrowing story.
Perhaps that's why he so powerfully resists help in dealing with the pain inside him-the pain he calls, "The Fury." Through it all, Frey comes to terms with his life by constantly reminding himself of who he is-repeating, almost in prayer: "I am an Alcoholic. I am a drug Addict. I am a Criminal." In doing so, he finds both love and forgiveness.
As much as Frey is unlike writers that came before him, it would be easy to classify his prose in the literati that include David Foster Wallace or Dave Eggers-whose memoir "A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius" bears stunning stylistic resemblance to "Pieces," but tell Frey that and you'll really unleash the fury.
In a Salon interview, he had this to say about Eggers and his work: "A book that I thought was mediocre was being hailed as the best book written by the best writer of my generation. (Expletive) that. And (expletive) him and (expletive) anybody who says that. I'm going to try to write the best book of my generation and I'm going to try to be the best writer."
Well, thank goodness his writing manages to display a bit of maturity.
Published in 2003, over a year ago, this review is probably a little late coming. But I did not get around to reading the book until about a month ago, myself. I wouldn't bother writing it if this book didn't deserve consideration by everyone. It may not be the best work of a generation-but it does no harm in trying.
When it's all over your opinion of Frey may not be warm and cuddly: It's not meant to be.
Drug abuse and addiction is ugly, rehab is not pretty and the aftermath is painful. Frey captures all of that and a bit more. It is laced in every word, and reflected in every ritual throughout the book. Therein lays the achievement of "Pieces."
