Alas, the book annoyed me right from the start - its egotistical narrator, the pretentious capitalization of Important Words, and a prose style that was a slavish imitation of William Burroughs and Jack Kerouac, though at least Frey admitted to these influences.
Despite the above strikes, I forged ahead and was surprised by some of the nuggets of wisdom, compassion, and humor. It's not a David Sedaris book, it's a story about an addict, so I wasn't expecting to laugh at all. It is pretty graphic in some parts. Unfortunately, these nuggets were buried in over 400 pages of repetition and silliness, and as we now know, a lot of embellishment. One of the reasons the book sold so well was that so many people identified with it. What a disappointment when Frey was forced to confess that a large part of it was a lie. And what a way to have to confess!
I'm the kind of person who jettisons items like books and clothing whenever I leave a place - a sort of physical and psychological unburdening. I brought A Million Little Pieces with me to the airport this morning with the intent to leave it there for someone else to read. So I did. On a chair at one of the gates near mine. Within minutes, an airport maintenance person came by, took a look at the book, and then promptly tossed it into the garbage bag she was filling with empty cups, wrappers, and other detritus. Even though I didn't enjoy the book all that much, I had hoped for a slightly better future for it, as I suspect Frey did when he wrote it.