I mentioned yesterday that I’ve been reading Chris Lawford’s tale of addiction (Symptoms of Withdrawal) rather than the book Oprah picked for her book club, James Frey’s A Million Little Pieces.

I actually bought the latter, but put it down after reading the first page. I may get back to it eventually, since I think compulsive overeaters have a lot to learn from drug and booze addicts, but boy, I find it hard to believe that this was a book Oprah couldn’t put down. Then again, given that the new me is trying to avoid bad energy in my life, I might as well go back to my regular Howard Stern habit as subject myself to the (apparent) rage in this book.

In case you’re still thinking about it, Salon just did a review that isn’t exactly flattering. Here’s a sampling:

But “A Million Little Pieces” isn’t a poor choice for the most successful book club in the world solely because scrutinizing it amounts only to picking apart its author. To put it plain, this book just isn’t that good. In 2003, just before “A Million Little Pieces” was first published, Frey gave a manic interview to the New York Observer during which he exclaimed, “I’m going to try to write the best book of my generation and I’m going to try to be the best writer.” Well, he’s not even close.

…

Frey writes, on and on until “I start to cry. I start to cry. I start to cry.” He’s filled another page where each line consists on just one or two words: “Damage irreparable./ Cry./ Fight./ Mom./ Dad./ Brother./ Cry./ Fight./ Live./ Torch./ Pipe./ Bottle…”

Is this even writing? All of “A Million Little Pieces” is like this.

Yikes. Faulker, then Frey. And the TV show that used to be about normal people now seems to be about building Oprah’s list of celebrity friends. Who is this woman and what did she do to the real Oprah?!?