Mi annoio facilmente, lo confesso. Chiedo continuamente di essere intrattenuto in ogni situazione che vivo: se sono in coda alla posta, per esempio, spero sempre che succeda una lite con l'addetto di turno ligio alla burocrazia. Ho un debole per le situazioni stravaganti e le parole coraggiose. Quando ho sentito il piccolo eroe di questa storia - che si chiama, non a caso, Augusten - dire: "Da grande volevo diventare o un medico o una celebrità. L'ideale sarebbe stato fare la parte di un medico in una serie TV", ho capito che aveva tutte le carte in regola per non annoiarmi. E non mi ha deluso. Uno sguardo lucido, il suo, che solo un ragazzino può avere. Una vena ironica irresistibile, quasi genetica, che trasforma ogni possibile incazzatura in un sorriso disarmante. Ed è una storia che rischia di fare molto incazzare, questa. Perché racconta di quanti torti può subire un adolescente durante il suo percorso di crescita: una madre tutta sbagliata, che si rivolge a lui come se rispondesse a un'intervista televisiva; un padre che sogna di abitare vicino a una discarica; una seconda famiglia completamente andata, che gli risolve i problemi facendo la "pesca alla Bibbia". Ma la forza di Augusten (Burroughs) è proprio la sua grande capacità di adattamento. Anzi, direi addirittura che Correndo con le forbici in mano è una lezione di adattamento al mondo che ci circonda. ( )

What to make of this one? It's one of the best-selling and best-known works in the "midlife memoirs" category, but it's far from the best of them. It might, however, be one of the weirdest non-stories ever committed to paper. And it's a tremendous little guilty pleasure. While you sometimes get the sense that authors in this genre "work through" their material in a sort of semi-therapeutic kind of way, I don't get the sense that any of that is going on here. Burroughs doesn't seem to be "crafting" these stories as much as reeling them off, and why not? His childhood and adolescence seem to have given him material that most memoir writers can only dream of. He's just putting it out there, really. It'd probably be too weird to work as fiction, and I simply can't believe somebody tried to film this thing. What can you say about a book whose high point is, very arguably, a sixteen-year-old girl's memorably vivid description of her yeast infection? Where do you even go with that?

And that, really, is the problem with "Running with Scissors". If I were a creative writing type, I'd say that it lacked narrative cohesion, but what it lacks, really, is any sort of cohesion at all. There's not much to knit these I-can't-believe-it moments of record-breaking dysfunction together, but that's less a knock on the author than an intrinsic problem with the material he's dealing with here. It'd be an even-money bet that nobody he spent a significant amount of time around before turning eighteen could've acted normal for forty-eight consecutive hours, if they had made an honest-to-God effort. He and his adopted siblings didn't grow up free-spirited as much as feral. In this book, one inexplicable near-disaster follows another, and each character that gets introduced is more estranged from reality than the last. You could read this one as an indictment of the permissive post-sixties, but nobody here even considered themselves much of a hippie or a bohemian, and one of them went to Yale Medical School. It's easier, honestly, to think of them them a horde of hopeless oddballs. "Running With Scissors" might be called episodic narrative, or a picaresque, but maybe that's just the shape texts take when things keep on happening at a furious pace and nothing ever even starts to make sense. At the end of the novel, the Burroughs tries on an authorial tone to suggest that what he really learned in the filthy, muddled space that his mother's psychiatrist called a home was survival, and, yes, it's a minor miracle that everyone here didn't end up in either Walpole or Danvers. But I also suspect that the author is trying to make sense of things that simply cannot be made sense of. To give him some credit, he seems to sense that he's got some high-octane weirdness here that can more or less speak for itself, and he's smart enough not to take himself too seriously. I'm not sure that he'd hesitate to call the version of himself we see here an immaculately shallow queer cliché. In the book, he comes off as resilient and likable enough, which is perhaps more than you can say for some of the aggressively unsocialized Finch children. The rest is noise. Oh, and bodily fluids and ill-considered construction projects. My own upbringing was, in a couple of ways, different than the ones you see on American sitcoms, but after finishing "Running With Scissors," I got to thinking that I'd never really appreciated how normal a lot of it actually was. I guess this makes this book life-changing, if perhaps not in a way that the author intended. ( )

ugh ( )

This book was entertaining, but self-indulgent- and the main character is someone I have little respect for. It's difficult to sympathize with a character on the basis of the people around him being mental when he's just as mental, if not more so, than them. ( )

WOW! Unbelievable. The only reason it is believable is it is hard to imagine soemone with such an imagination to make this stuff up. It is amazing and terribly sad that people raise their kids this way. I did enjoy the book though and had a hard time putting it down. I really wanted to know how these people were going to live to adulthood. I am not sure I want to see the movie though. I probably will some day though. Thanx again for including me in this ray. It is packaged up waiting for an address for the next person. ( )