This book was not at all what I expected from the description. It is unlike any memoir I have ever read, in that it is written in second person. That in itself took some getting used to. Also it reads less like a book and more like a disjointed list of events. It begins in 1977 and then jumps to 1912 and the sinking of the titanic before moving ahead to 2009 and then 2002. It's like dropping a photo album, shuffling the pictures and putting them back in no particular order. It was difficult to follow. That is not to say the events themselves were not book worthy, but the writing style was just not for me.

I received a complimentary copy for review. ( )

I really enjoyed this. I very much liked the diary style entries, flitting from year to year; surprisingly, I didn't find it confusing at all. ( )

I am drawn to books that help me empathize with those whose lives are different than mine. This book does that in spades, bringing the raw view of addiction and mental health stuff. It's grim, so one to read when you're feeling up to it.

Dates. Memories. Snippets of time. That’s how this book starts out.

Instead of using the first person approach, as most memoirs do, Roberge uses second person. You are the story. You are living Roberge’s life. In one memory, you’re in 2009 – the next you’re in 1912. The jumps in memory read naturally, like they’d play out in your head.

Due to the jumps, it is difficult to pinpoint the timeline of the story. Events occur, but they are so randomly organized that there doesn’t seem to be much – if any – connection. While at first the random un-story-like telling is refreshing, it gets annoying after the first hundred or so pages. After awhile, it makes more sense to read it like individual stories rather than a cohesive whole.

He’s obsessed with death, including his own suicide. In a noteworthy quote at the end of the book Roberge writes, “This is what the world will sound like without you.”

This was a good book, very interesting. It’s definitely a look through Roberge’s eyes – as a memoir goes, this was a successful one.

Disclaimer: I received this book free of charge from Blogging for Books for my honest review. ( )

Received as an uncorrected proof from LibraryThing for an honest review.

The first time I ever met Memoir was at the back of a high school creative writing class. If you've never been in a creative writing class or have always plopped down front and center in eager anticipation of being doused in literary genius, I highly suggest a trip down the row to a seat at the back for a change if you're given the opportunity. The literary genius might thin out a little bit from point A to point B but I believe it has its own charm; somewhat like sitting at the back of the bus, the vibe is different. Especially when paired with the inebriating combination of dust motes and straying sun rays that a well-placed window provides.

Our teacher, a passionate proponent of daily free writing and red gel pens, stood at the front of the room and settled into a reading from [b:The House on Mango Street|139253|The House on Mango Street|Sandra Cisneros|https://d.gr-assets.com/books/1348245688s/139253.jpg|2000351] by [a:Sandra Cisneros|13234|Sandra Cisneros|https://d.gr-assets.com/authors/1342038396p2/13234.jpg]. Memoir expanded, as if her presence were illumined. Previously we'd been on speaking terms but never really connected. She ran with a different crowd. Suddenly, there she was - a presence that was gaining the gravity of a hard and fast crush.

I think it was the energy and beauty of Cisneros' vignettes that really pulled the curtain up on how enticing Memoir was. At least that's how it connected in my mind for years, one enhanced by the other with Cisneros' style lingering over any thought of Memoir and shaping the ideal.

When I received Roberge's Liar the first thing I noticed was the style. Roberge delivers his memoir in dated bursts; the dates scattered throughout, giving the book a more conversational feel than a chronological one. It's an intriguing style and adds its own texture to the book. Much as Cisneros' vignettes shape the taste and texture of The House.

Though I skimmed through the book when I first got it, I put it off to the side for a bit. I was wary of the content. I hadn't read anything by Roberge previously but I had checked out the synopsis of the book and knew it encompassed Roberge's struggles with addiction and mental illness. I think it's increasingly important to have realistic accounts of these subjects, among others, out in the world but I tend to shy away from shock-the-reader writers. I wasn't sure where this book would fall and I think its synopsis does it a bit of a disservice in this regard. Namely in its opening line:

"An intense memoir about mental illness, memory and storytelling, from an acclaimed novelist."

Effecting content about the realistic struggles of those with addictions, of any kind, and mental illness is important but affected content does more harm than good in my opinion. Though it was difficult to read parts of Roberge's book I've come away from it believing it to be the former rather than the latter.

There were parts I didn't like (or didn't get). I didn't get the point of Roberge enlisting historical reference in his memoir. Other than a recurring story concerning the aftermath of the sinking of the Titanic that is expanded upon throughout the book and a couple references to cases of CTE, included references felt like a detraction rather than an aide to the overall vibe of the book. Also, while its style is intriguing, it began to wear a bit as the book went on. There are so many events and so many people mentioned in this memoir that details get a bit buried in such a scattered account.

Overall, however, I liked the book for one main reason. It is not the book to read if you are battling addiction, self harm, and/or mental illness and you want something consistently uplifting to get you through a bad moment. It's a raw account of what these struggles feel like and, as such, it is both triggering and emotional. But having such an account that you can relate to, even if only in small parts, is important. I would recommend this book to those who can empathize with or have experienced such struggles with the warning that is a heavy read, one that you might need to step away from along the way but one that certainly has something to offer.
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