Average Reviews:
(More customer reviews)Given to me as a gift, this book sat on a shelf for more than three years. The title, cover art, and (to some extent) the blurbs led me to believe that it was about tattoo artists or skinheads or the East Village or whatever. (For the record, I do not have any tattoos and have no interest in getting one.)
I now regret not having read this memoir sooner.
This is not a book about tattoos. Rather, Trachtenberg uses his seven tattoos as a simple yet effective framework for not only his autobiographical narrative, but also his literary studies, theological musings, and cultural explorations. His story is familiar: self-destruction exacerbated by drug abuse, a love-hate bond with his parents, an inability to commit to relationships. What distinguishes this memoir from the many (tiresome) confessional accounts flooding the market are a self-mocking wit, the willingness to assume responsibility for his mistakes, and--most of all--the grace and hilarity of his prose. (I challenge anyone not to laugh aloud while reading his discourse on Christ's stigmata or his tale of attempting Zen meditation under the influence of speed.)
The breadth of his recall of literature is impressive--from James Boswell to Philip K. Dick. In one chapter, he brilliantly weaves a reading of "Lord Jim" into both an account of his travels in Borneo and a reminiscence of his affair with a Native American woman. In another, he entwines a fictional noir script (a la James M. Cain) with his tale of a writer whose stories increasingly resemble the details of their own friendship.
Equally impressive is his knowledge of religious customs; he is able to lampoon just about every faith with equal verve. ("Hell isn't even mentioned in the Torah. The closest thing you find is Sheol, a dusty gray underworld that's as inclusive as the Hard Rock Cafe and, I'm sure, as dreary: Anyone can get in; everyone will.") Some might find his mockery of religion blasphemous, but his skewering seems far more fond than venomous.
Both "Kirkus Reviews" and a customer's post on this Web site mock this book as an "exercise in self-indulgence." But isn't that the very definition of any memoir? Other readers might wonder: who is this guy; why is his life so interesting that I should bother reading about it? But we don't enjoy reading about Clarissa Dalloway or Stephen Dedalus because they have fascinating or unusual lives. Instead, like good fiction, Trachtenberg's memoir succeeds because he takes the oft-old tale of decline and recovery and turns it into a clever, coherent, captivating narrative.
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