Most Helpful Customer Reviews
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20 of 23 people found the following review helpful:
3.0 out of 5 stars
It's really only 56 pages., November 8, 2005
When I saw that it was 256 pages I thought it was all going to be stuff that Spalding Gray had written. I was really excited to get this book, thinking that I'd have at least a few days worth of reading to do. Unfortunately only 56 of those 256 pages are actually his work. The forward by Francine Prose goes from pg 17-49. "Life Interrupted" goes from pgs 53-92 (40 pages). "The Anniversary" goes from pgs 95-109 (15 pages). "Dear New York City" is pg 113. The rest of the book, pgs 121-255, are eulogies. I would have preferred to just get a skinny little 56 page book of only his work. I realize that this book in essence was to be a dedication to Spalding Gray's life and last days. A way for his friends and family to celebrate his existance in their lives and say goodbye to him. It is a good book and well worth the money, but I would have preferred to just get his writings sans wordy forward and eulogies.
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14 of 18 people found the following review helpful:
4.0 out of 5 stars
Spalding Gray's parting monologue., October 24, 2005
"If you had to reduce all of Spalding's work to its essence, its core," Francine Prose writes in her Foreward to Gray's last major monologue, "if you wanted to locate the subject to which, no matter what else he talked about, he kept returning, I suppose you could say that his work was a profoundly metaphysical inquiry into how we manage to live despite the knowledge we are someday going to die. How are we to love the world and the people we care about most even when we know that someday we will lose it all and our loved ones will have to continue without us" (pp. 43-44)?
Perhaps best known for SWIMMING TO CAMBODIA (1988) and GRAY'S ANATOMY (1994), Spalding Gray committed suicide last year at the age of 62, leaving behind his wife, Kathleen Russo, a stepdaughter, Marissa, and two sons, Forrest and Theo. In his unfinished work in progress, LIFE INTERRUPTED, Gray tells of his trip to Ireland to celebrate his 60th birthday, which ended with a gruesome car crash leaving him severely injured and depressed. That incident not only became the catalyst for Gray's return to writing from his "quiet life" of domestic bliss in Sag Harbor, but the turning point in his life, ultimately leading to suicide. From the transvestite with green fingernails offering him toast and tea (p. 67-68), to his Pakastani doctors, to his attempts to try to get along with the blaring televisions (p. 71), to his musings on how an intelligent country like America could "elect such a dud like George Bush" (p. 80), Gray finds never-ending humor in his grim predicament, while recovering from his injuries in an Irish country hospital. Spalding Gray's parting monologue offers such sweet sorrow.
The book concludes with several short eulogies by Gray's friends (Laurie Anderson, John Perry Barlow, Eric Bogosian, Eric Stoltz and many more), delivered in memorial services at Lincoln Center and in Sag Harbor.
G. Merritt
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5 of 6 people found the following review helpful:
5.0 out of 5 stars
Spalding gives us something to think about, and departs., August 17, 2006
A celebrity is someone whom you've never actually met, but think you know; not just know about, but know. The celebrity press offers us little bits of enticing, patently untrue information about these imaginary friends every day. Part of our agreement with the idea of celebrity is that we believe these things while knowing (after all, we're not crazy) that they aren't true.
It was easy to slip into thinking of Spalding Gray, who after all never pretended to be anything but an actor and a sort of amateur writer, as a celebrity. Since his confessional monologues included much that was embarrassing and painful, it was easier that way. Apparently, though, every word of it was true. His sadness, his eerily prophetic but still crippling fears, his inability, like so many children of suicides, to get on with his life -- it was all there. It was all, or at least mostly true, and we really knew him after all, and the guilt at not having been able to save him, at having been not an imaginary friend but a real one, and not a very good one, is real as well.
His monologues were surprisingly layered, nuanced and durable works of art, considering he never claimed much for himself as a writer. They are like Chekhov plays without villains -- not so dark, or so funny, and a bit sweeter than you'd like, maybe, but still great, and this is the last of them.
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