Back in the early noughties, I read Carter Beats The Devil around the same time as Kavalier & Clay and finally it clicked, this whole thing people had for sprawling novels about America written with the half-outsider perspective of a Jewish guy. I'd never quite connected with Bellow or Roth, or on screen with Woody Allen (which with hindsight perhaps turned out to be a lucky escape), but these, these I got. Since then, Chabon has written approximately 57 further works of fiction, 16 non-fiction collections, showrun a TV series which made me give Star Trek another go (even if it did then lose me again by not having enough of the dog), and briefly helmed one of the many doomed attempts at emulating the MCU. Meanwhile, Gold did a couple of bits and pieces of comics, one further novel which didn't seem to do a fraction of the business that Carter did, and now this memoir. That might not seem like much of a workrate, but when you read about his early life the wonder is that he's even a professional writer at all, instead of living under a bridge and screaming at traffic, or else carefully maintaining the most entirely calm, stable and boring life possible.
But then, I suppose in its outlines, it's maybe not a spectacularly bad, misery memoir kind of upbringing. Just really not a good one. A father who didn't much care, invested more in the next marriage (which also fell apart); a mother who was a flake, always convinced her ship was coming in as she took up with another unsuitable man, starting with the charming yet unreliable ones and gradually declining to the flat-out awful ones. Herself, of course, in turn damaged by her own upbringing, as per the rest of that Larkin poem, the bits I always think carried the real weight of it far more than the couplet we usually hear. Maybe it's more that over the best part of 500 pages, anyone's childhood traumas would come to seem like a big deal to a reader who's invested. An investment Gold grabbed with those novels, and then kept on the hook with still being able to write at that artful but catchy level I always enjoyed in him. Lines like "When I arrived the first day, the silence in the classroom was like that of Barbary apes interrupted in their dens by the appearance of a goat smeared in candy". There were times it teetered right on the edge: the line "I felt a calling. I had to notice all the world's wonders and sadness and to report to someone somewhere how much there was left to lose", even applied with a certain distance to one's younger self, is the sort of thing I can easily see putting off the sort of reader who's not necessarily in the market for another story of a white-ish male creator's struggles. For myself, it reminded me of A Heartbreaking Work Of Staggering Genius, and how around the same time as I was getting into Gold and Chabon I loved that so much more than I thought I would, only to not retain anything like the same interest in what seemed increasingly like a determined erasure of self and joy in much of Eggers' subsequent work.
Obviously, there's a certain get-out clause in a memoir like this: if something comes off, it's because the writer is brilliant, and if it doesn't, it's because he's already admitted his younger self is an asshole. It's noticeable, for instance, that we get a lot about his unpublishable early writing*, but almost nothing about how his successful stuff happened, or about much of anything else after he got together with Alice Sebold. And before that? The indicia lists characters whose names and details have been changed, including most of the author's exes. 'A Note On The Accuracy Of The Text' opens the book proper, reading, in full, "My mother assures me that none of this happened". The acknowledgements have more errata, and we know from the text itself that Gold is an unreliable narrator. Just...probably not as unreliable as his mother. I didn't have a background like this myself, thank heavens, but I recognise too much of it from too many other people's lives. Though maybe not quite to the extent of a 12-year-old being left alone in San Francisco because his mother has moved on to pursue her latest unsuitable relationship in New York. Or having a junkie OD in your bedroom at a party, or going for night walks through the city at that age (I like that our generation was more readily allowed out alone, but even I can tell that this extreme is a problem). The setting is another part of the appeal, of course; an adult looking back at a child's eye view of San Francisco as sixties idealism soured into the coked-up seventies. The weird bouncing off the early edges of the IT revolution that has since transformed the West Coast; Glen's dad was briefly a cassette millionaire, his mum an early Pong tycoon, and he himself maybe the first Pong champion.
Elsewhere, the experiences are more relatable, whether that be broad stuff (being the academic kid who didn't entirely get people; trying to work out what Michael Stipe is singing about) or the things that, even if they aren't really rarer, certainly feel that way. Like the way Gold captures that wonderful, dangerous stage of a relationship where you work out your own shared mythology – and how bleak it feels when that crumbles. This is a book where emotional content like that sits alongside the excitement of a kid getting a call from Jim Shooter, or being introduced to Simak and Zelazny, and once I wouldn't have thought of that as a very big crossover, but whatever the continuing problems with geek culture, I think Gold and Chabon are at least a little part of the reason that much at least has changed.
Inevitably, it's a tough read in places. Gold isn't entirely trying to get himself off the hook, or get us to hate his parents, but with a situation like this, whoever's to blame it's still difficult just being reminded that humans suffer like this and make each other suffer like this. Who wouldn't wince at a line like "The part of my brain that knows how to hurt the people I love moves faster than the part that knows whether I should. Ask anyone who loves me, especially those who don't anymore"? Or how, even before a certain awful band rendered the phrase 'be here now' permanently unfit for service, Gold spots the obvious problem: "I don't want to be here now. It's horrible here right now." Equally, there's the hope: after all, he made it through, and seems happy-ish now, so maybe we will too.
*Though while the novels proper do sound terrible, the ideas for impossible stories that came to him in dreams are things I would, at least in theory, absolutely read.