I don't have a whole lot to say about this book. It's been two weeks since I finished it, and it was one of those books with absolutely no staying power. At the time I read it, I was bored. It was about Burroughs' father's abuse, but at the same time, it felt like Burroughs had very little interest in his father as a person. So it felt almost like his father was some vaguely ominous presence constantly hovering in the shadows, rather than being explored by the story.

It felt a bit meandering and pointless, which I think may in part be his writing style, but I wasn't a fan.

I'm not really sure of what else to say. It didn't feel like this book was saying anything. I don't read nonfiction to learn some kind of lesson or moral, but I always feel like there needs to be a point in telling a nonfiction story. I didn't get that in this book. Perhaps some of his other memoirs are better. I know he has several that are more well known than this one, but I don't have any desire to continue on with his works.