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Novel impresses with candid detail

January 11, 2006

It's unfathomable that James Frey even lived to tell his story. Frey woke up on an airplane half dead without any memory of what had happened to him. He was in pain and could barely walk. There was a hole in his cheek, and his nose was broken.

His parents were waiting for him at the airport. He didn't have many options at this point and agreed to check into a rehabilitation center, despite the fact he didn't have much faith in the system.

"A Million Little Pieces" documents Frey's six weeks in rehab.

He describes himself harshly, saying, "I am an alcoholic, and I am a drug addict and I am a criminal." The chant becomes a sort of mantra for Frey. This brutal honesty is the framework for his entire memoir.

The online publication "The Smoking Gun" has an article claiming Frey exaggerated his criminal past and his involvement in a few other incidents. Frey is denying it. Whether he exaggerated or not, I'm still a fan. The thing they are failing to take into account is no memoir is exactly, 100 percent factual. Memoirs are filtered through the author's memories and perceptions. The content of a memoir is true to the writer, even if not exactly in step with everyone else's recollections.

Frey allows us to see him at rock bottom. He is showing us the very worst in human beings. Throughout his memoir he confesses to all sorts of atrocious sins. He demonstrates to us the power of free will and how easily our chosen actions can destroy all that is good in life. But this is not a sad story. Frey also demonstrates the sheer power of a commitment to change.

As we follow him through rehab we are introduced to the sort of people one would meet in a clinic. He has a knack for describing people's least flattering characteristics. None of the people you meet in his story have stunning good looks or sparkling personalities.

Frey doesn't sugarcoat anything for the reader. His candidness is what sets his story apart from the scores of other memoirs about addiction. When Frey gets two root canal with no anesthesia and no pain drugs, you feel it. I had to stop reading for awhile. He drags the reader into what he is experiencing — this is the thing in the novel that moves you.

Frey is brave and honest, drawing horror, respect and awe from the reader. He refused to participate in Alcoholics Anonymous, and as he defied clinic rules and refused to take his counselor's advice, I was cheering for him. But I was also scolding him. I wasn't convinced he could do it, and I was practically begging him to do what he was told.

Frey has a unique style of writing. His prose is, much like him, unorthodox and erratic. There are no quotation marks in his book — none. Somewhat randomly, words are capitalized to convey importance. The funny thing about it is, I didn't even notice his technically bad grammar until I had read at least 10 pages into the book.

The way that Frey writes works. It doesn't matter if he isn't following the rules. (Not following the rules seemed to serve him well in rehab, too.) Frey's informal style adds to the personal quality of his story. The memoir wouldn't work as well without it; something would be missing.

Frey has learned a lot about human nature. Through his book, we learn the importance of family and love — the way we must all grapple with fury and shame. Frey touches on the most primal and important aspects of humanity, and this is why we cry when he cries and rejoice when he rejoices.

On the last page I was celebrating Frey's success, but I was mourning the fact that I had reached the end of the book. Oprah picked a good one this time.

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