Augusten Burroughs is Full of It

I've read almost every one of Augusten Burroughs' books and, for the most part, have enjoyed them. There's a certain sensationalism that appeals to me, mostly out of schadenfreude, I suppose. A couple of years ago, the Turcotte family sued Burroughs for defamation and invasion of privacy because they felt that Burroughs took certain extreme liberties, painting a more negative (and it's pretty damn negative) picture of the Turcotte family. I've never been completely sure who is telling the truth because both parties have ample reason to lie, but I've always sided partially with the Turcottes because Burroughs did settle out of court, changing Running With Scissors from a "memoir" into simply a "book". Either he was the one lying or, more likely, he has much more to lose (like a lucrative career in an industry that is hard to break into).

Now, after reading the first sentence of his new memoir, A Wolf at the Table (about his messed up father), I am fairly convinced that Burroughs is full of shit. The book starts off with a passage, from his own perspective, recalling him sitting in a high chair looking at the world through a tiny hole in a saltine. It's a dynamic image and a creative way to start a book (kind of...not like it hasn't been done by better writers like Grass and Joyce), but it can't be a genuine memory, can it? I'm not sure why I feel like a beginning like that is such a slap in the face or why I feel like my intelligence is being insulted, but that's my first reaction. I couldn't read any more. I wanted to read the book at first, but after reading the first sentence I was totally put off.

I understand that writers use stuff that isn't real all the time. Every writer exaggerates; I certainly have exaggerated plenty of times on this very blog. So I guess I'm a bit of a hypocrite for getting so upset with Burroughs.

Or maybe I'm just jealous that he seems to have found a way of getting away with it.