Absolutely disgusting. Not to mention, most people think the book isn’t real. Mostly because a) There’s no Peter Curran and b) No 66 year old man ever jumped to his death from the Palisades anywhere in NJ.
Via Salon.com:
When I was seven years old, in Peter Curran’s basement, it was easy to forget the outside world. We couldn’t hear much, Peter and I, from within those concrete walls. Not the bumping of cars as someone struggled to parallel park, not teenagers whistling through their fingers, nor two pigeons fighting over a bread crust.
In the basement, I couldn’t hear someone wheeling laundry or groceries home in a shopping cart purloined from the Pathmark parking lot, and I couldn’t hear the wheels of bustling baby carriages, or the mothers affectionately calling their little daughters “Mami.”
The author goes on to write …
Peter and I continued our relationship for fifteen years, and until he died, I was Peter’s religion. No one else would find the twenty photo albums of me alone, or with Paws, or with Karen, or with my mother, engrossing. The two locks of hair, braided together, brown and gray, laminated so they would always last. An album of autumn leaves, the names of the trees that they came from listed underneath: sugar maple, blackjack oak, sweetgum.