![]() ![]() He has come down, this April afternoon, to walk me around his old neighborhood while I dredge his apparently superhuman memory in an effort to determine whether he is, as millions of readers seem to believe, one of the most honest men on the planet-someone willing to share unvarnished true-life details of his childhood statutory rape and the time he murdered a rat in cold blood in his bathtub-or whether, as others have alleged (some of them in a court of law), he is actually a gigantic liar. Dialogue has been compressed, and chronology has been changed for dramatic effect.Īugusten Burroughs travels between Amherst, Massachusetts, where he lives, and New York, where he keeps an apartment, in a hired black Town Car, so he can sit in the back and chew nicotine gum and watch Trauma: Life in the ER on his iPod. NOTE: This profile of the allegedly fake memoirist Augusten Burroughs is based on real events. But when I recollect the image of my boyhood and tell others about it, I am looking at this image in time present, because it still exists in my memory. My boyhood, for instance, which no longer exists, exists in time past, which no longer exists. ![]() Although with regard to the past, when this is reported correctly what is brought out from the memory is not the events themselves (these are already past) but words conceived from the images of those events, which, in passing through the senses, have left as it were their footprints stamped upon the mind. ![]()
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