The Hilliker Curse: My Pursuit of Women


The legendary crime writer gives us a raw, brutally candid memoir—as high intensity and as riveting as any of his novels—about his obsessive search for “atonement in women.”

The year was 1958. Jean Hilliker had divorced her fast-buck hustler husband and resurrected her maiden name. Her son, James, was ten years old. He hated and lusted after his mother and “summoned her dead.” She was murdered three months ...

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The Hilliker Curse: My Pursuit of Women

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The legendary crime writer gives us a raw, brutally candid memoir—as high intensity and as riveting as any of his novels—about his obsessive search for “atonement in women.”

The year was 1958. Jean Hilliker had divorced her fast-buck hustler husband and resurrected her maiden name. Her son, James, was ten years old. He hated and lusted after his mother and “summoned her dead.” She was murdered three months later.

The Hilliker Curse
is a predator’s confession, a treatise on guilt and on the power of malediction, and above all, a cri de cœur. James Ellroy unsparingly describes his shattered childhood, his delinquent teens, his writing life, his love affairs and marriages, his nervous breakdown, and the beginning of a relationship with an extraordinary woman who may just be the long-sought Her.

A layered narrative of time and place, emotion and insight, sexuality and spiritual quest, The Hilliker Curse is a brilliant, soul-baring revelation of self. It is unlike any memoir you have ever read.

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Editorial Reviews

Library Journal
In his second memoir, Ellroy (L.A. Confidential) attempts to dispel a curse that began with the murder of his mother, Jean Hilliker, when he was ten years old, which is more thoroughly explored in his previous memoir, My Dark Places. His mother's murder came three months after he had wished her dead. That he should have behavioral challenges and issues with guilt is understandable. Ellroy's own curse, readers learn, is his inability to develop stable, long-term, and meaningful relationships with women; he writes here of seeking to dispel that curse. In short, punchy sentences, with lurid detail, Ellroy describes his many—ultimately doomed—relationships and marriages in his search for her, the woman with whom he is destined to be. In the course of his search, he leaves a path of destruction, which, along with his self-realization, is what this book is about. VERDICT Recommended for readers who enjoy introspective, edgy memoirs and for fans of Ellroy.—Mark Alan Williams Manivong, Library of Congress
Kirkus Reviews

Noted crime writer Ellroy (Blood's a Rover, 2009, etc.) presents a sharp-tongued, acidic memoir of his life and loves.

The author's loose-living mother, Jean Hilliker, has figured deeply in his previous work—one need only readThe Black Dahlia (1987); his father less so, and Ellroy paints him memorably: "He had the bunco-artist gab and the grin...He dodged work and schemed like Sergeant Bilko and the "Kingfish" on Amos & Andy. The pastor at my church called him 'the world's laziest white man.' He had a sixteen-inch schlong. It dangled out of his shorts. All his friends talked about it. This is not a wacked-out children's reconstruction." That's a volatile combination sure to leave marks on a young boy's psyche, but it's the mother's curse—to say just what it is would steal some of Ellroy's thunder—that really does him in. The author's '50s is not that ofLeave It to Beaver—not with Dad and Mom setting the examples. By the time he was 13, Ellroy was chugging cheap wine, peeping into windows and reading deeply into warlock-haunted literature that "formally sanctioned me to lie still and conjure women." Ah, and the women he conjured. There's Susan, who swigged cough syrup and downed stolen pills with him ("we talked classical music shit endlessly"); Charlotte (who "thought I drank too much"); Helen ("I lacked her omnivorous view of the world in all its lively flux. She lacked my brutal will"; and...well, a lot of ands, remembered over half a century in this Nabokovian exercise in time travel, with confessions of vice and addiction and, mostly, half-truths told and believed. It's vintage Ellroy, full of bile and invective and utterly unsparing to anyone—including the author himself, who manages to let slip away most of the good things he finds and spends a few fortunes in the bargain, yet keeps on plugging.

A fervent portrait of the artist as a young screw-up—an old one, too, who writes like an avenging angel.

Publishers Weekly
Ellroy’s narration of his memoir of how his mother’s brutal rape and murder molded him sexually and psychically is as utterly distinctive as anything as he has done. Full of vim and vigor, this reading is a bit like mad beat poetry, as staccato sentences, wild almost jazz styling (a low-cut dress reveals “boooo-coop back”) take sentences in unfailingly entertaining if unintentionally hilarious directions. It’s dark stuff Ellroy is relating—his early Peeping Tom proclivities, for example—but his odd emphases, the way he trumpets small, unimportant facts as if there were a big reveal (“He sold Buicks! She bought a red and white sedan!”) elicits more laughter than the writer perhaps intended. A Knopf hardcover. (Sept)
From the Publisher
“As fascinating as it is at times utterly disturbing.”
 —Entertainment Weekly

“Crime writer James Ellroy’s most compelling mystery story has always been his own . . . But The Hilliker Curse is not meant to be merely a confession. It is an act of creation . . . There’s a truth of feeling in it, too, an underlying sense of what it is actually like to live in the vortex of an impossible yearning . . . Ellroy is expert and relentless at dramatizing the effects [of his obsession].”
 —Wall Street Journal
“This latest book is Ellroy’s most intimate and personal . . . It’s forceful and unsparing in its revelations . . . [His sentences] make you grateful to read his prose, with its marvelous fury, passion and energy. They also compel you to keep rooting for him.”
 —San Francisco Chronicle
“Crime novelist Ellroy has given us a wild memoir in his hard-boiled, jazzy, staccato style . . . Quite a read.”
 —New York Post
“Perhaps the most confessional memoir I’ve ever read.”
 —Dallas Morning News
“From the fantastic writer who brought us unforgettable books like L.A. Confidential and The Black Dahlia, comes this extraordinary in-depth work about his own life. As always, Ellroy is extremely explicit, writing every word of this memoir with an in-your-face passion, elegance, and anger that will literally stop readers in their tracks . . . Bravo!”

“Ellroy’s characteristically unforgiving portrait of himself as an angry and frustrated teenager is a masterpiece of savage economy . . . There’s no doubt that Ellroy’s is a singular voice.”
Observer (UK)
“Fascinating . . . A searching and difficult but utterly compelling and often heartbreaking memoir of love and obsession from noir master James Ellroy . . . Readers familiar with Ellroy will recognize and appreciate the machine-gun prose, Los Angeles chiaroscuro and tortured psyche that Ellroy has made his own.”
Shelf Awareness
“A fervent portrait of the artist as a young screw-up—an old one, too, who writes like an avenging angel . . . It’s vintage Ellroy.”
 Kirkus Reviews
 “The Hilliker Curse centers mainly around the author’s doomed relationships, but also gives tantalizing glimpses into the mind of Ellroy the writer . . . As always, the writing is razor sharp, infused with Ellroy’s patented abrasive black humor. He holds nothing back.”

“There’s no doubt about it: James Ellroy is a fascinating character . . . He’s as hard to ignore as a burning fire truck . . . The revelations are compelling, as the author indicts the tough-guy persona he has so meticulously constructed.”

From the Hardcover edition.

Library Journal
When crime writer Ellroy was ten, his mother was murdered, an event he explored in depth in My Dark Places (1996). In this follow-up memoir he focuses on how his mother's tragic death may have jinxed his relations with women, recounted in details not always flattering to the author. He also touches on numerous other topics, including classical music, dogs, and religion. While far from a polished reader, Ellroy brings his highly eccentric character to the fore, alternating between a straightforward performance and incantations that both serve to celebrate his excesses and exorcise his many demons. No one says, "I brooded" with quite the intensity he brings. Essential for Ellroy fans and of considerable interest to those attempting to comprehend the mysteries of male-female relationships, though definitely not for strict adherents to political correctness. [The Knopf hc was recommended "for readers who enjoy introspective, edgy memoirs," LJ 9/15/10.—Ed.]—Michael Adams, CUNY Graduate Ctr. Lib.
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780307593504
  • Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
  • Publication date: 9/7/2010
  • Pages: 224
  • Product dimensions: 8.98 (w) x 11.40 (h) x 0.87 (d)

Meet the Author

James Ellroy was born in Los Angeles in 1948. He is the author of the Underworld U.S.A. Trilogy—American Tabloid, The Cold Six Thousand, and Blood’s A Rover—and the L. A. Quartet novels, The Black Dahlia, The Big Nowhere, L. A. Confidential, and White Jazz. American Tabloid was Time magazine’s Best Book (fiction) of 1995; his memoir My Dark Places was a Time Best Book of the Year and a New York Times Notable Book for 1996. The Cold Six Thousand was a New York Times Notable Book and a Los Angeles Times Best Book of 2001. He lives in Los Angeles.

From the Hardcover edition.

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Read an Excerpt


The numbers don't matter. It's not a body count, a scratchpad list or a boast. Statistics obscure intent and meaning. My toll is therefore ambiguous. Girlfriends, wives, one-night stands, paid companions. Chaste early figures. A high-stat blitz later on. Quantity means shit in my case. Culminated contact means less than that. I was a watcher at the get-go. Visual access meant capture. The Curse incubated my narrative gift. My voyeur's eye pre-honed it. I lived a kiddie version of my twisted heroes thirty years hence.

We're looking. We're eyeball-arched and orbing in orbit. We're watching women. We want something enormous. My heroes don't know it yet. Their virginal creator has not a clue. We don't know that we're reading personae. We're looking so that we can stop looking. We crave the moral value of one woman. We'll know Her when we see Her. In the meantime, we'll look.

A document denotes my early fixation. It's dated 2/17/55. It predates The Curse by three years. It's a playground shot in Kodak black & white.

A jungle gym, two slides and a sandbox clutter the foreground. I'm standing alone, stage left. I'm lurchlike big and unkempt. My upheaval is evident. A stranger would mark me as a fucked-up child in everyday duress. I have beady eyes. They're fixed on four girls, huddled stage right. The photo is rife with objects and children in lighthearted movement. I'm coiled in pure study. My scrutiny is staggeringly intense. I'll re-read my mind from 55 years back.

These four girls bode as The Other. I'm a pious Lutheran boy. There can be only one. Is it her, her, her or Her?

I think my mother took the picture. A neutral parent would have cropped out the freako little boy. Jean Hilliker at 39: the pale skin and red hair, center- parted and tied back--my features and fierce eyes and a sure grace that I have never possessed.

The photo is a windowsill carving. I was still too young to roam unfettered and press my face up to the glass. My parents split the sheets later that year. Jean Hilliker got primary custody. She put my dad on skates and rolled him to a cheap pad a few blocks away. I snuck out for quick visits. High shrubs and drawn shades blocked my views en route. My mother told me that my father was spying on her. She sensed it. She said she saw smudge marks on her bedroom window. I read the divorce file years later. My father copped out to peeping. He said he peeped to indict my mother's indigenous moral sloth.

He saw her having sex with a man. It did not legally justify his presence at her window. Windows were beacons. I knew it in my crazed-child rush to The Curse. I entered houses through windows a decade hence. I never left smudge marks. My mother and father taught me that.

She had the stones. He had the bunco-artist gab and the grin. She always worked. He dodged work and schemed like Sergeant Bilko and the Kingfish on Amos 'n' Andy. The pastor at my church called him the "world's laziest white man." He had a sixteen-inch schlong. It dangled out of his shorts. All his friends talked about it. This is not a whacked-out child's reconstruction.

Jean Hilliker got bourbon-bombed and blasted the Brahms concertos. Armand Ellroy subscribed to scandal rags and skin magazines. I got two days a week with him. He let me stare out his front window and fuck with his binoculars. My ninth birthday arrived. My mother got me a new church suit. My dad asked me what I...

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Sort by: Showing all of 2 Customer Reviews
  • Posted June 9, 2011


    No where near as good as 'My Dark Places', this book wanders self-indulgently around its title, trying to find some coherence. It doesn't have the bite of Ellroy's fiction or the raw power of internalised pain that made his earlier memoir so compelling. I found myself wondering how many more times he was going to blame his crappy relationships on his mother. It read like a book full of excuses: there was nothing new there and nothing that made me any more or less sympathetic than I felt after reading 'My Dark Places' which I thought magnificent. Even worse was the whiff of 'by rote' born-again bull at the end. I love Ellroy's non-fiction much more than his fiction but this is a retread that should have remained in draft form. He's always worth reading but where 'My Dark Places' howled, this whines.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted September 21, 2010

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