At the age of five, Michael Ryan was molested by a neighbor. Nearly 40 years later, he found himself methodically preparing to seduce a girl who was barely more than a child. As Ryan describes his free fall into sexual obsession, he creates an autobiography that is at once harrowing and redemptive, heartbreaking and profoundly moral. "By turns repelling and seductive . . .
At the age of five, Michael Ryan was molested by a neighbor. Nearly 40 years later, he found himself methodically preparing to seduce a girl who was barely more than a child. As Ryan describes his free fall into sexual obsession, he creates an autobiography that is at once harrowing and redemptive, heartbreaking and profoundly moral. "By turns repelling and seductive . . . absorbing and disquieting."--New York Times Book Review.
...more
Paperback
,
356 pages
Published
June 25th 1996
by Vintage
(first published 1995)
A prizewinning poet confesses his sex addiction, reveals he was sexually molested at the age of five, gives a painful account of his horrible violent alcoholic father and tells us all he himself is the loathesomest of humans and ought to be dead.
Could be pretty interesting, I thought. Well, it really isn't.
All the above is in the first 50 pages. For the next 250 pages we get a really tedious description of growing up in 50s/60s America. We've had this a kazillion times before in better books th
A prizewinning poet confesses his sex addiction, reveals he was sexually molested at the age of five, gives a painful account of his horrible violent alcoholic father and tells us all he himself is the loathesomest of humans and ought to be dead.
Could be pretty interesting, I thought. Well, it really isn't.
All the above is in the first 50 pages. For the next 250 pages we get a really tedious description of growing up in 50s/60s America. We've had this a kazillion times before in better books than this one. I recently came across exactly the same kind of thing in The Risk Pool by Richard Russo and in My Lives by Edmund White.
Readers may find Michael Ryan's memories of growing up hard to take for two reasons :
1) I don't believe guys remember this stuff in this amount of detail
and
2) it's really dull
He measured all the dimensions of the basement and after dinner sat at the kitchen table scribbling on blueprints and expense sheets. He even brought home an adding machine from the office which chugged and unrolled its paper spool when he hit the keys. One of the first things he decided was the colors. It would be all black and pink.
Are you asleep yet? No? Okay try this –
When everyone had arrived we lined up and my brother called out our last names and we stepped forward and barked "Present Sir!" and saluted also with two fingers extended, as in the scout shake. Then we all crammed into cars driven by volunteer parents. We were going to the Appalachian Trail, up the Northeast extension of the Pennsylvania Turnpike, into the Poconos.
Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
The thing about sex addiction is that I don't see what the issue really is. For Michael it involved a whole string of women, none of whom he coerced, there was no violence or meanness involved, unless he's omitted that. He didn't indulge in heavy bondage, unless he's omitted that. Okay, a swathe of them were students when he was a Princeton lecturer. That's bad. (In which case all the academics in Philip Roth's novels are evil sex addicts too.) So all day long he's plotting who he can have sex with next and this costs him his marriages (it's not unusual, as Tom Jones pointed out). He doesn't discuss his marriages – you might have thought that would be relevant if sex addiction had destroyed them, but they don't rate more than a line.
Okay this sexual steeplechase is very time-consuming, I get that. But me, I got three monkeys on my back, not one. I'm obsessed with books and movies and music. Takes all my time and my money. I can hardly spare the time to go to work. Never mind talk to my family. But you won't get me joining a 12 Steps programme. I got no complaints.
Secret Life fits right into the 90s/2000s craze for misery memoirs. There's all the child abuse stuff with titles like Broken, A Child called It, Unloved, Mummy Knew, Invisible Tears and so on; then there was the literary version like Running with Scissors, Prozac Nation and Wonderland Avenue. Some of those were discovered to be embellished. No, sorry, wrong word – they were found to be fake. The whole genre is creepy. Confessions are often called brave but they could be described also as self –aggrandizing. They're brimful of the insistent pretense of candour. They're all so needy. they need us readers to love them for writing so shamelessly about their former badness. It's all a bit like something you have to take a shower after. I came to this book after reading Joe Matt's graphic novel sexual confessions – now those are great. I immediately trusted Joe Matt. But I didn't know how much to believe Michael Ryan.
This book has a really bad opening sentence
Every sex addict has his own thing, the thing he likes the most, although 'like' is hardly the word for the inexorable pull I felt and sought and sometimes still feel but with God's help one day at a time do not act on.
(So it announces itself as a 12 Steps book.) Referring again to Edmund White's autobiography, now there was a guy who could be reasonably described as a sex addict. But he doesn't moan (well, not in that sense).
An incredibly ugly, painful, life-changing memoir from one of America's finest poets. Michael Ryan went through the earthly equivalent of hell for many, many years, progressing from molestation as a child through a crushing sex addiction and the torture of concealing it all. It unveils the dark story that colors so much of Ryan's poetry, yet bears an unmistakable twinge of hope.
This is a brave book that is well written. It explores sexual trauma as a child and how it impacted his sexuality as an adult. It might be a hard book for many to read.
a memoir that I thoroughly enjoyed. Well written book on sexual addiction, childhood molestation. It is a very honest book. It doesn't ask for sympathy.