Lyric Powers read and liked Chai's review of A Wolf at the Table: A Memoir:

"Burroughs is dramatic. He's a ranting, raving, immensely creative, drama queen. I spent most of the book thinking thoughts like this whilst rolling my eyes. There was a lot of could have, maybe, 'I think he might have', in this book. He writes well, ...more Burroughs is dramatic. He's a ranting, raving, immensely creative, drama queen. I spent most of the book thinking thoughts like this whilst rolling my eyes. There was a lot of could have, maybe, 'I think he might have', in this book. He writes well, but without fail, he makes me cringe every several pages. The bright! he stared at the bright! when he was a year and a half old.

I think abuse of children in any form, is horrid. That includes anything Burroughs' father may have done, whether it was making him feel unwanted, or scaring him. He sounded like a bitter, twisted, nasty old man - the way he supposedly treated animals shows that. And for a child, the daddy that doesn't pay you attention and simmers with rage in his rocking chair, can indeed be frightening, he is that wolf at the table. But when you're in your thirties, reaching your forties; I think it's about time to maybe outgrow it, be bigger and better, stop chasing daddy's impossible affection. I guess it's frustrating as a reader to see this guy putting himself back in the range of fire, over and over again. I wanted to slap him, really. Dude, you found an abandoned cabin in the fucking woods, why would you be so intent on wanting to curl up in daddy's lap; from your descriptions of dearest daddy, it probably smelt like cheese anyway. Actually, thinking like Burroughs, if you'd cuddled daddy his crotch would have snapped you up with it's burning teeth of hell, whilst wailing banshee screeches, lashing octopus limbs, fire, doom, death. You know, maybe, but daddy just sat in his chair and scribbled notes about the price of corn instead.

Part of me wanted to tell him to get over it. And himself. I expected this book to be darker, the book cover with the fork leads one to believe that they should proceed with caution, this kid's childhood is going to be full of violence and neglect and despair. Not that I wanted it to be the case, but it's what I had expected. Instead, it was a patchwork of rather isolated incidents, with a young Burrough's furtive imagination fueling the drama. He wasn't physically abused, thankfully, and I well understand that emotional abuse can be ten times worse, but it seemed that much of the abuse was implied. A look from daddy, could be three pages of what Burroughs thought the look meant. The dog that became daddy's dark sidekick after several days of young Burroughs' absence - had been magically turned by the dark overlord. Burroughs envisioned the dog having been tortured by electricty, poked with sharp implements ... and so on. The dog was a little nuts; it was likely it was hardly ever fed considering how neurotic and self-obsessed the entire family is. No wonder it was acting out.

The thing that I noticed, was that he nagged his dad a lot, and subsequently got ignored. Over and over. His bedroom door was no protection for his dad's fist; which was never used against anyone - but was implied (over and over). Every time he called his father 'dead' instead of 'dad', I felt like laughing raucously and/or punching the book. I felt like sticking two fingers down my throat and making gagging noises. You twit, Burroughs. You make me feel all dramatic up in here. I want to grab my throat, drop to the floor and act all Shakespearean and shit. He googled for missing students near where his father lived, I mean, come on, if that isn't a bloody overactive imagination; then what is?!

If this isn't a fine case for why divorce is a must for some people, then I don't know what is. Why would these two have even stuck together?! Daddy was a boring, old, bitter man and his hatred and dissatisfaction with his life, made him ill and sore and pained. When little kids come along and get in the way of one's misery, and self-reflection, they're going to be told to go away. Because who wants to bounce a curly-headed little angel up and down on one's arthritic, swollen knee, whilst petting their head with their flaking, stink-meated fists? Who'd want to subject such a bouncing, bubbly, charming little tyke, such as Burroughs, to a mouthful of blackening stumps. The odour of death. Dark wings of Satan flapping all around that gingervitis cavern of gloom. And death. Which kills.

I'm sorry Augusten, I don't know where my love affair with you took a nose dive. I'm pretty sure this book had something to do with it. I'm a little worried that if I re-read your other books, they'll only irritate the shit out of me. WAS I ON CRACK OR SOMETHING WHEN I THOUGHT THAT YOU WERE AWESOME?! Or is it more to do with the fact that you are nothing without that humour for which I so loved you in the beginning. I hope your next ten, fifteen, fifty memoirs are at least hilarious.

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