The only thing more appalling than the horrific family events Burroughs recounts is the cloying, narcissistic, self-cherishing way Burroughs narrates. Every word is lovingly wrapped in self-admiring cotton ("I wrote this word!" "I chose this word!" "I can't believe myself!"), which is not only tiring: it breaks the flow of narration. I was finally able to accommodate myself to this unnecessarily drawn-out style of speaking, and the book manages to come through as a sad, frightening and sympathetic self-portrait.
Krishnamurti's message is far-reaching and unsparing. I've listened to the book three times now. Adam Behr's reading is articulate, but uninflected. Everything is said with the same emphasis, without discernible pauses. The material warrants a more thoughtful reading. The net effect is relentless, it gets a bit too much at times, and I've had to stop repeatedly just to take a break.
George Guidall's rendition of this pitch-perfect portrait of neurotic dysfunction is brilliant. Only slightly exaggerated, the interior worlds of these generally unlikeable persons emerge with poignant and uncomfortable clarity.
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