I finished Boys
in the Trees yesterday. I was captivated by the first third, trudged through the second third, and came to some kind of understanding with the last third. Memoirs are tricky in that they are, by nature, self-indulgent. The memoirs written by the noteworthy are tricky in that the authors often aren't gifted writers and they tend to do an awful lot of name dropping. I started to see Carly Simon not as a bad ass rock star, but as a wounded little girl constantly seeking the approval of men. I no longer envied her...I pitied her. That was a little uncomfortable. That being said, I wanted her to give me less of an accounting and more self- revelation. Sadly, I didn't get a sense of growth or maturity or peace. The only nuggets I found were slipped into the last couple pages almost as an after thought.
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"It always amazes me that we can look right past something that finally smacks us in the face. That blind spot."
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"Over the years, I've learned something that has made my life easier, more honest and satisfying: I've stopped trying to stop loving."
