Magical Thinking, by Augusten Burroughs (upon request)

In Magical Thinking, the fourth book by Augusten Burroughs, readers are taken on an eclectic ride through “true stories” from the life of the author. Though occasionally funny and often boring (with attention to minutia bordering on obsession), and even at times raw with honesty; nevertheless, the book reads more like the pre-pubescent tales of a child who never grew past the point of self-absorption.

The opening pages set the tone of the book, wherein Burroughs uses expletives and profanity to such degrees that readers are (intentionally) numbed. Burroughs choice of raw vulgarity in expression and description loses all effectiveness by page three, leaving little in the way to indicate change in tone, manner, ethos, or disposition. Even his graphic descriptions of “remembered” events—true, if they are to be believed—sound more like an adult reinterpretation of childhood events—intuition sprinkled with imagination—than history.

In the brightest moments, the book reads like a tabloid, full of tales about “volunteer” (e.g. charity) sex. In the dullest moments, it reads like “Seinfield meets Prairie Home Companion” through the eyes of a man lost: lost to himself, to dignity, and to honest introspection. Not that there isn’t introspection. The book is ripe with it, but Burroughs “honesty” is so dressed up in homosexual encounters and the monotony of a life fixated on male AOL personals that one can’t help but be tempted to skip large sections.

Throughout the book, Burroughs dresses up his life as best as possible. But at key moments, the façade falls away to reveal a life disorganized: piled with papers, empty beer cans, and longing that goes unfulfilled from one sexual encounter to another. Usually he hides his longing in sarcasm and sex. When it becomes visible, the longing is poignant and bitterly hopeless. The utter indifference he experienced from his mother would have warped anyone. The belittlement he suffered from his brother in childhood stings even my heart: “…my brother treated me as not just his younger brother, but his ‘borderline retarded’ younger brother. In fact, this is exactly how he introduced me to his friends: ‘This is my younger brother. You can just ignore him: he’s basically retarded’” (172).

Burroughs is most honest about his human condition—the suffering, the hurt, the rejection, and the childhood longing to be loved of parents and peers—when not trying. Honesty: “It wasn’t so much that I wanted to be a girl. It was that I wanted to make a dramatic change in my life… I was in the midst of an unhappy childhood (emphasis mine).” (26) Honesty: “When I turned thirty, I briefly flirted with the notion of undergoing sexual reassignment surgery. Once again, I was ready for a big change in my life… (emphasis mine)” (29). [I]t wasn’t like I was unhappy being a guy. I really liked being a guy. It’s just I was bored with my life and wanted a change (emphasis mine)” (30).

Burroughs’ (often) rose-colored memories stand in sharp contrast to the earthy grit of the images that flow from between the boisterous language. His descriptions of the world are a throwback to elementary school ideals and pubescent descriptors: everything exists only in relationship to the sexual parts of his (or other people’s) bodies. It is almost as though Burroughs never grew past that point in childhood where the world revolved around him, and every sentence began with “I”. Self accolades are not rare, and a picture of Burroughs takes shape—a picture, that is, as much self-absorbed (e.g. as in the utterly pointless twaddle in the chapter titled “Roof Work”) as it is obsessive-compulsive and a hypochondriac.

The term Magical Thinking “is used by historians of religion to describe one kind of non-scientific causal reasoning” (Wikipedia). In the chapter by the same name, Burroughs makes himself the “Superman meets God” of causation: “I believe I control the world with my mind” (234). “…I can manipulate the external influence in my life as surely as I can make a baby cry just by grinning” (238). His description of God is sad at best and foolhardy at worst: “I believe in the baby Jesus. And I believe he is handsome and lives in the sky with his pet cow. I believe that it is essential the cow likes you. And if you pet the cow with your mind, it will lick your hand and give you cash. But if you make the cow angry, it will turn away from you, forget you exist, and your life will fall into shambles. I believe as long as the cow likes you, you can get what you want” (239). One should not be surprised by the casualness and preposterousness of such claims. The pride of any man has always been the road of his greatest defeat and indignity, a gnawing fact that chews at Burroughs’ thoughts at the base of his brain: “I myself am made entirely of flaws stitched together with good intentions” (110).

Magical Thinking is not even an uncommon voice (and far from outstanding) among the tomes about the glorious ruin of man’s endeavors. Better written and more honest engagements with the modern tone of suffering and brokenness is easily found in the best sellers of Amazon’s book lists: a sad fact that reduces Magical Thinking to just another book by another author drunk on the wine of his own narration.