Other people's memories of the stuff in this book might not be the same as mine. I ain't gonna argue with 'em. Over the past forty years I've been loaded on booze, coke, acid, Quaaludes, glue, cough mixture, heroin, Rohypnol, Klonopin, Vicodin, and too many other heavy-duty substances to list in this footnote. On more than a few occasions I was on all of these at the same time. I'm not the fucking Encyclopedia Britannica, put it that way. What you read here is what dribbled out of the jelly I call my brain when I asked it for my life story. Nothing more, nothing less ...
(James Frey should have used that disclaimer before A Million Little Pieces, man.)
With an intro like that, you'll understand why we're interested in reading this whole thing, which we just got in the mail. He'll be signing copies of the book at Book Soup in West Hollywood on Tuesday, February 2.
After the jump, a few key sentences from the book, devoid of context.
On his life of crime:
I was a fucking crap burglar. I kept going back and doing the same job, over and over.
On trying to sell the clothes that he stole:
I might as well have tried to sell a turd.
On getting released from prison:
I was a free man, and I'd survived prison without being arse raped or beaten to a pulp.
So how come I felt so fucking sad?
On getting into a fight at a pub:
I remember this bloke getting me in a headlock and trying to punch my teeth out, and all I can hear on the jukebox is this kumbaya bullshit being tapped out on a fucking glockenspiel while some knob-end with a voice like his marbles are in a vice warbles on about 'strange vibrations.'
On another potential career path:
Now, they're lethal fucking things, electric welders.
On his luck with the ladies in England:
Even after our first album went gold, I never got any good looking chicks. Black Sabbath was a blokes band ... We used to joke that the only groupies that came to our gigs were 'two-baggers' -- you needed to put a couple of bags over their head before you could shag them; one wasn't enough.
On his luck with American ladies:
In America, the chicks just came right up to you and said, 'Hey, let's fuck.' You didn't even have to make any effort.
On one particular night at a Holiday Inn:
Eventually I decided to try and find out where all these groupies were coming from.
On the problems of cocaine and singing:
When you're taking heavy-duty amounts of cocaine, this white gunk starts to trickle down the back of your throat, and you find yourself doing that phlegm-clearing thing all the time -- like a sniff, but deeper and gunkier.And that puts a lot of stress on that little titty thing that hangs down at the back of your throat ....
On the genesis of biting the heads off of pigeons:
"I put down the bottle and took the birds from Sharon.
'Why don't I bite their heads off?' I said, holding them up in front of my face. 'That'll make an impression.'
And those are just the quotes we found after a cursory glance at this thing. Phew.