Beautiful Boy: A Father's Journey Through His Son's Addiction
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Beautiful Boy is a fiercely candid memoir that brings immediacy to the emotional rollercoaster of loving a child who seems beyond help.
at the Mexican markets. On weekends, we would go to Inverness. I recall a school holiday in October of that year—1989—when we stopped at the corner market to stock up and then drove out for a night in the country. In the afternoon, we met up with a friend for a walk on miles-long Limantour Beach. We were hiking under a sapphire sky. Suddenly Nic pointed to the nose of a seal that had popped up through the choppy surf. Then there was another, then another. Soon ten or a dozen seals were peering
of small, manageable squares. Painting one square at a time, he creates mesmerizing wall-sized portraits. I was often overwhelmed by the whole, too, but I learned to contain my worry about Nic in a square or two of the grid that would be there if Close were to paint my life. I check into them once in a while. When I do, I feel an entire range of emotions, but they don't overwhelm me. Sometimes I still freak myself out about the future, but far less than I used to. I'm better about taking it one
God, that men should put an enemy in their mouths to steal away their brains! That we should, with joy, pleasance, revel, and applause, transform ourselves into beasts. —WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, The Tempest 9 MY FIRST SUMMER in Berkeley, Charles moved up from Tucson, enrolling in summer school, and we rented an apartment together. One evening, he arrived home, yanked the thrift-shop mirror from the wall, and set it on a coffee table. He unfolded an origami packet, poured out its contents
uses a British accent that borrows pitch and tenor from the narrator of Rocky and Bullwinkle cartoons. "As everybody knows, PJ Fumblebumble is the greatest detective in all of London. However, for those of you who have spent your whole life living in a cave or in a hut buried beneath snow, I'll just say that if anything were to ever go amiss for you—a missing parakeet, a burglar in the bedroom, no syrup for your pancakes—there's only one man that you need bother to call. That man, as you probably
better. Jasper flipped over on his bike. I don't want to tell you too much bad news, but I zippered my eye in my jacket. Now it's fine. Everything is A okay now. Love, Daisy." After summer hours, mornings are a challenge, but we get the kids to school on time today. I'm writing again. I am writing again after being unable to write a word. This afternoon, Jasper has soccer (he's juggling soccer, band, and swim team), and Daisy and I go for a walk. After collecting Jas, we head to Nancy and