The first thing you should know: there is a drawing of a stapler in the prologue of this book. For no reason. A non sequitor beyond all non sequitors. And yet it is the apotheosis of why this book is so amazing.
Eggers' memoir, published in 2000, is a genre unto itself - sprawling, self-conscious, postmodern prose that pulls no punches. The genesis for the project was Eggers' parents dying within 32 days of one another, both of cancer, and his being granted full custody of his younger brother, Toph. A tragic story, for certain, but Eggers shows us the darker side of the experience beyond the typical orphan tale -- how he sleeps around a lot; convinces himself he will die young, most likely of AIDS; dreams of becoming a Real World cast member and have the whole country feeling sorry for him; relishes the thought that somehow he was Chosen, singled out for an extraordinary life because of the terrible thing that happened to him.
The latter in particular is a thought that many people have, but few would say, and in that way I find Eggers' writing extraordinarily brave. But sometimes (and I feel this way about McSweeney's, too, his literary mag) Eggers is a little too cute, too clever, too self-consciously writing a really good book. Where is the rawness, the grit, the devastation?
That being said, one cannot help but become enchanted by the relationship developed between the author and his little brother -- it is beyond endearing. And kudos must be given because, quite frankly, this book blew the roof off the memoir genre; it was like nothing ever published before. Moreover, death - a subject that Americans in particular are loathe to examine - is one of if not the primary focus of the book, and it is examined unflinchingly. So you can't help but read it and have that transcendental experience that all we readers crave: that opportunity to read a passage and think to yourself, "really? I thought I was the only one."
