In a powerfully funny, razor's edge recollection of a fractured childhood, Mary Karr, who grew up in a swampy East Texas refinery town, tells of being the epicenter of a family full of fierce, volatile attachments--a "terrific family of liars and drunks . . . redeemed by a slow unearthing of truth." Excerpted in Granta.
Mary Karr kick-started a memoir revolution with The Liars' Club, which was a New York Times bestseller for over a year, a best book of the year for The New York Times Book Review, The New Yorker, People and Time, a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award, and the winner of prizes from PEN and the Texas Institute of Letters. Karr has won the Whiting Award, Radcliffe's Bunting Fellowship, and Pushcart Prizes for both verse and essays, and she has been a Guggenheim Fellow in poetry. Her other bestselling books include The Art of Memoir, the memoirs Lit and Cherry, and the poetry collection Sinners Welcome, Viper Rum, The Devil's Tour, and Abacus. The Peck Professor of Literature at Syracuse University, Karr lives in New York City.
Read an Excerpt
Chapter 1 My sharpest memory is of a single instant surrounded by dark. I was seven, and our family doctor knelt before me where I sat on a mattress on the bare floor. He wore a yellow golf shirt unbuttoned so that sprouts of hair showed in a V shape on his chest. I had never seen him in anything but a white starched shirt and a gray tie. The change unnerved me. He was pulling at the hem of my favorite nightgown-a pattern of Texas bluebonnets bunched into nosegays tied with ribbon against a field of nappy white cotton. I had tucked my knees under it to make a tent. He could easily have yanked the thing over my head with one motion, but something made him gentle. "Show me the marks," he said. "Come on, now. I won't hurt you." He had watery blue eyes behind thick glasses, and a mustache that looked like a caterpillar. "Please? Just pull this up and show me where it hurts," he said. He held a piece of hem between thumb and forefinger. I wasn't crying and don't remember any pain, but he talked to me in that begging voice he used when he had a long needle hidden behind his back. I liked him but didn't much trust him. The room I shared with my sister was dark, but I didn't fancy hiking my gown up with strangers milling around in the living room. It took three decades for that instant to unfreeze. Neighbors and family helped me turn that one bright slide into a panorama. The bed frame tilted against the wall behind the doctor had a scary, spidery look in the dark. In one corner, the tallboy was tipped over on its back like a stranded turtle, its drawers flung around. There were heaps of spilled clothes, puzzles, comics, and the Golden Books I could count on my mom to buy in the supermarket line if I'd stayed in the carriage. The doorway framed the enormous backlit form of Sheriff Watson, who held my sister, then nine, with one stout arm. She had her pink pajamas on and her legs wrapped around his waist. She fiddled with his badge with a concentration too intense for the actual interest such a thing might hold for her. Even at that age she was cynical about authority in any form. She was known for mocking nuns in public and sassing teachers. But I could see that she had painted a deferential look on her face. The sheriff[hmp1.5]'s cowboy hat kept the details of his expression in deep shadow, but I made out a sort of soft half-smile I'd never seen on him. I had a knee-jerk fear of the sheriff based on my father's tendency to get in fights. He'd pull open the back screen with knuckles scraped and bleeding, then squat down to give instructions to me and Lecia (pronounced, she would have me tell you, "Lisa"). "If the sheriff comes by here, you just tell him you ain't seen me in a few days." In fact, the sheriff never came by, so my ability to straight-faced lie to the law was never tested. But just his presence that night flooded me with an odd sense: I done something wrong and here's the sheriff. If I had, that night, possessed a voice, or if anyone nearby felt like listening, that's what I might have said. But when you're a kid and something big is going on, you might as well be furniture for all anybody says to you. It was only over time that the panorama became animate, like a scene in some movie crystal ball that whirls from a foggy blur into focus. People developed little distinct motions; then the whole scene jerked to smooth and sudden life. Sheriff Watson's jaw dipped into the light and returned to shadow with some regularity as he said things that I couldn't hear to my blond, suddenly cherubic-acting sister. Some firemen wearing canary-colored slickers started to move through the next room, and Dr. Boudreaux's thick fingers came again to rub the edge of my speckled nightgown the way old ladies at the five-and-dime tested yard goods. There must have been an ambulance outside, because at intervals big triangles of red light slashed across the room. I could almost feel them moving over my face, and in the window, through a web of honeysuckle, I saw in my own backyard flames like those of a football bonfire. And the volume on the night began to rise. People with heavy boots stomped through the house. Somebody turned off the ambulance siren. The back screen opened and slammed. My daddy's dog, Nipper, was growling low and making his chain clank in the yard. He was a sullen dog trained to drink beer and bite strangers. He'd been known to leap from a speeding truck's window to chase down and fight any hound he saw. He'd killed one lady's Chihuahua, then just shook it like a rag while Daddy tried to coax him out of her garage and she hollered and cried. When a voice I didn't know told some sonofabitch to get out of the way, I knew it meant Nipper, who disappeared that night into the East Texas bayou-or more likely, my sister later figured out, the gas chamber at the local pound. Anyway, we never saw him again, which was okay by me. That dog had bitten me more than once. More door slams, the noise of boots, and some radio static from the cruiser in the road. "Come on, baby," Dr. Boudreaux said, "show me the marks. I'm not about to hurt you." I kept waiting to make eye contact with my sister to get some idea of how to handle this, but she was dead set on that badge. I don't remember talking. I must eventually have told Dr. Boudreaux there weren't any marks on me. There weren't. It took a long time for me to figure that out for certain, even longer to drive my memory from that single place in time out toward the rest of my life. The next thing I knew, I was being led away by Sheriff Watson. He still held Lecia, who had decided to pretend that she was asleep. My eyes were belt-level with his service revolver and a small leather sap that even then must have been illegal in the state of Texas. It was shaped like an enormous black tear. I resisted the urge to touch it. Lecia kept her face in his neck the whole time, but I knew she was scudging sleep. She slept like a cat, and this was plenty of hoopla to keep her awake. The sheriff held my left hand. With my free one, I reached up and pinched her dirty ankle. Hard. She kicked out at me, then angled her foot up out of reach and snuggled back to her fake sleep on his chest. The highway patrolmen and firemen stood around with the blank heaviness of uninvited visitors who plan a long stay. Somebody had made a pot of coffee that laid a nutty smell over the faint chemical stink from the gasoline fire in the backyard. The men in the living room gave our party a wide berth and moved toward the kitchen. I knew that neither of my parents was coming. Daddy was working the graveyard shift, and the sheriff said that his deputy had driven out to the plant to try and track him down. Mother had been taken Away-he further told us-for being Nervous. I should explain here that in East Texas parlance the term Nervous applied with equal accuracy to anything from chronic nail-biting to full-blown psychosis. Mr. Thibideaux down the street had blown off the heads of his wife and three sons, then set his house on fire before fixing the shotgun barrel under his own jaw and using his big toe on the trigger. I used to spend Saturday nights in that house with his daughter, a junior high twirler of some popularity, and I remember nothing more of Mr. Thibideaux than that he had a crew cut and a stern manner. He was a refinery worker like Daddy, and also a deacon at First Baptist. I was in my twenties when Mr. Thibideaux killed his family. I liked to call myself a poet and had affected a habit of reading classical texts (in translation, of course-I was a lazy student). I would ride the Greyhound for thirty-six hours down from the Midwest to Leechfield, then spend days dressed in black in the scalding heat of my mother's front porch reading Homer (or Ovid or Virgil) and waiting for someone to ask me what I was reading. No one ever did. People asked me what I was drinking, how much I weighed, where I was living, and if I had married yet, but no one gave me a chance to deliver my lecture on Great Literature. It was during one of these visits that I found the Thibideauxs' burned-out house, and also stumbled on the Greek term ate. In ancient epics, when somebody boffs a girl or slays somebody or just generally gets heated up, he can usually blame ate, a kind of raging passion, pseudodemonic, that banishes reason. So Agamemnon, having robbed Achilles of his girlfriend, said, "I was blinded by ate and Zeus took away my understanding." Wine can invoke ate, but only if it's ensorcered in some way. Because the ate is supernatural, it releases the person possessed of it from any guilt for her actions. When neighbors tried to explain the whole murder-suicide of the Thibideaux clan after thirty years of grass-cutting and garbage-taking-out and dutiful church-service attendance, they did so with one adjective, which I have since traced to the Homeric idea of ate: Mr. Thibideaux was Nervous. No amount of prodding on my part produced a more elaborate explanation. On the night the sheriff came to our house and Mother was adjudged more or less permanently Nervous, I didn't yet understand the word. I had only a vague tight panic in the pit of my stomach, the one you get when your parents are nowhere in sight and probably don't even know who has a hold of you or where you'll wind up spending the night. I could hear the low hum of neighbor women talking as we got near the front door. They had gathered on the far side of the ditch that ran before our house, where they stood in their nightclothes like some off-duty SWAT team waiting for orders. The sheriff let go of my hand once we were outside. From inside the tall shadow of his hat, with my sister still wrapped around him in bogus slumber, he told me to wait on the top step while he talked to the ladies. Then he went up to the women, setting in motion a series of robe-tightenings and sweater-buttonings. The concrete was cold on my bottom through the thin nightgown. I plucked two june bugs off the screen and tried to line them up to race down a brick, but one flew off, and the other just flipped over and waggled its legs in the air. At some point it dawned on me that my fate for the night was being decided by Sheriff Watson and the neighbor ladies. It was my habit at that time to bargain with God, so I imagine that I started some haggling prayer about who might take us home. Don't let it be the Smothergills, I probably prayed. They had six kids already and famously strict rules about who ate what and when. The one time we'd spent the night there, Lecia and I wound up in the bathroom eating toothpaste past midnight. We'd eaten a whole tube, for which we had been switch-whipped in the morning by a gray-faced Mr. Smothergill. He was undergoing weekly chemotherapy treatments for mouth cancer at the time, and every kid in the neighborhood had an opinion about when he would die. Cancer and death were synonymous. His sandpaper voice and bleak disposition scared us more than any whipping. His kids called him Cheerful Chuck behind his back. The oldest Smothergill daughter had been permitted to visit my house only once. (Our house was perceived as Dangerous, a consequence of Mother's being Nervous.) She was so tickled by the idea that we could open the refrigerator at will that she melted down a whole stick of butter in a skillet and drank it from a coffee mug. Lord, I would rather eat a bug than sleep on that hard pallet at the Smothergills'. Plus in the morning the boys get up and stand around the TV in their underpants doing armpit farts. Let it be the Dillards', and I'll lead a holy life forever from this day. I will not spit or scratch or pinch or try to get Babby Carter to eat doo-doo. Mrs. Dillard stood with the other ladies in her pale blue zip-front duster, her arms folded across her chest. She made Pillsbury cinnamon rolls in the morning and let me squiggle on the icing. Plus her boys had to wear pajama pants when we were there. But the Dillards had space for only one of us, and that on the scratchy living room sofa. Maybe Lecia could go to the Smothergills', I proposed to whatever God I worshiped, and I could take the Dillards.I wished Lecia no particular harm, but if there was only one banana left in the bowl, I would not hesitate to grab it and leave her to do without. I decided that if the june bug could be herded the length of a brick before I could count five I'd get what I wanted. But the june bug kept flipping and waggling before it had even gone an inch, and Mrs. Dillard went out of her way, it seemed, not to look at me. I don't remember who we got farmed out to or for how long. I was later told that we'd stayed for a time with a childless couple who bred birds. Some memory endures of a screened-in breezeway with green slatted blinds all around. The light was lemon-colored and dusty, the air filled with blue-and-green parakeets, whose crazy orbits put me in mind of that Alfred Hitchcock movie where birds go nuts and start pecking out people's eyeballs. But the faces of my hosts in that place-no matter how hard I squint-refuse to be conjured. Because it took so long for me to paste together what happened, I will leave that part of the story missing for a while. It went long unformed for me, and I want to keep it that way here. I don't mean to be coy. When the truth would be unbearable the mind often just blanks it out. But some ghost of an event may stay in your head. Then, like the smudge of a bad word quickly wiped off a school blackboard, this ghost can call undue attention to itself by its very vagueness. You keep studying the dim shape of it, as if the original form will magically emerge. This blank spot in my past, then, spoke most loudly to me by being blank. It was a hole in my life that I both feared and kept coming back to because I couldn't quite fill it in. I did know from that night forward that things in my house were Not Right, this despite the fact that the events I have described so far had few outward results. No one ever mentioned the night again. I don't remember any subsequent home visits from any kind of social worker or concerned neighbor. Dr. Bouchdreaux seemed sometimes to minister to my health with an uncharacteristic tenderness. And neighbors dragged my sister and me to catechism classes and Vacation Bible School and to various hunting camps, never mentioning the fact that our family never reciprocated. I frequently showed up on doorsteps at suppertime; foraging, Daddy called it. He said it reminded him of his rail-riding days during the Depression. But no one ever failed to hand me a plate, though everybody knew that I had plenty to eat at home, which wasn't always true for the families I popped in on. The night's major consequences for me were internal. The fact that my house was Not Right metastasized into the notion that I myself was somehow Not Right, or that my survival in the world depended on my constant vigilance against various forms of Not-Rightness. Whenever I stepped into the road at Leechfield's one traffic light, I usually expected to get plowed down by a Red Ball truck flying out of nowhere (unlikely, given the lack of traffic). I became both a flincher and a fighter. I was quick to burst into tears in the middle of a sandlot baseball game and equally quick to whack someone in the head without much provocation. Neighborhood myth has it that I once cold-cocked a five-year-old playmate with an army trench shovel, then calmly went back to digging. Some of this explosiveness just came from a naturally bad temperament, of course. But some stems from that night, when my mind simply erased everything up until Dr. Boudreaux began inviting me to show him marks that I now know weren't even there. The missing story really starts before I was born, when my mother and father met and, for reasons I still don't get, quickly married. My mother had just arrived in Leechfield. She'd driven down from New York with an Italian sea captain named Paolo. He was fifty to her thirty, and her fourth husband. My mother didn't date, she married. At least that's what we said when I finally found out about all her marriages before Daddy. She racked up seven weddings in all, two to my father. My mother tended to blame the early marriages on her own mother's strict Methodist values, which didn't allow for premarital fooling around, of which she was fond. She and Paolo had barely finished the honeymoon and set up housekeeping in Leechfield, where he was fixing to ship out, than they began fighting. So it was on a wet winter evening in 1950 that she threw her dresses, books, and hatboxes in the back of an old Ford and laid rubber out of Leechfield, intending never to return. She was heading for her mother's cotton farm about five hundred miles west. Just outside of Leechfield, where Highway 73 yields up its jagged refinery skyline to bayous and rice fields, she blew a tire. She was about twenty yards from the truck stop where Daddy happened to be working. He had a union job as an apprentice stillman at Gulf Oil, but he was filling in at the station that night for his friend Cooter, who'd called him in desperation from a crap game in Baton Rouge where he was allegedly on a roll. All Mother's marriages, once I uncovered them in my twenties, got presented to me as accidents. Her meeting Daddy was maybe the most unlikely. Had Cooter not gotten lucky with the dice in a Baton Rouge honky-tonk, and had Paolo not perturbed Mother in the process of unpacking crates, and had the tire on the Ford not been worn from a recent cross-country jaunt (Paolo's mother lived in Seattle, and they'd traveled there from New York, then down to Texas, where divorce laws permitted Mother to quickly get rid of husband number three before signing up with number four). . . . All these events conspired to strand my mother quite literally at my father's feet on Highway 73 that night. He said there was a General Electric moon shining the first time he saw her, so bright it was like a spotlight on her. She refused his help jacking up the car and proceeded to cuss like a sailor when she couldn't get the lug nuts loose. My mother claims that she had only recently learned to cuss, from Paolo. Daddy said her string of practiced invectives, which seemed unlikely given her fancy clothes (she had on a beige silk suit) and New York license plates, impressed him no end. He'd never heard a woman cuss like that before. She changed the tire and must have made some note of his raw good looks. He was some part Indian-we never figured out which tribe-black-haired and sharp-featured. His jug-eared grin reminded her of Clark Gable's. Since she fancied herself a sort of Bohemian Scarlett O'Hara, the attraction was deep and sudden. I should also note that Mother was prone to conversion experiences of various kinds, and had entered a fervent Marxist stage. She toted Das Kapital around in her purse for years. Daddy was active in the Oil Chemical and Atomic Workers Union. Whenever they renegotiated a contract-every two years-he was known as an able picket-line brawler. He was, in short, a Texas working man, with a smattering of Indian blood and with personality traits that she had begun to consider heroic. Reprinted from Liar's Club by Mary Karr by permission of Penguin USA, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc. Copyright (c) 2000 Mary Karr. All rights reserved. This excerpt, or any parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
"The essential American story ... a beauty." —Jonathan Yardley, The Washington Post Book World
"Astonishing ... one of the most dazzling and moving memoirs to come along in years." —Michiko Kakutani, The New York Times
"This book is so good I thought about sending it out for a backup opinion...it's like finding Beethoven in Hoboken. To have a poet's precision of language and a poet's insight into people applied to one of the roughest, toughest, ugliest places in America is an astonishing event." —Molly Ivins, The Nation
"9mm humor, gothic wit, and a stunning clarity of memory within a poet's vision.... Karr's unerring scrutiny of her childhood delivers a story confoundingly real." —The Boston Sunday Globe
"Overflows with sparkling wit and humor.... Truth beats powerfully at the heart of this dazzling memoir." —San Francisco Chronicle
Reading Group Guide
The Liars' Club by Mary Karr
The Family Sideshow
When I set out on a book tour to promote the memoir
about my less than perfect Texas clan, I did so with
soul-sucking dread. Surely we'd be held up as grotesques,
my beloveds and I, real moral circus freaks. Instead I
shoved into bookstores where sometimes hundreds of people
stood claiming to identify with my story, which fact
stunned me. Maybe these people's family lives differed in
terms of surface pyrotechnics houses set fire to
and fortunes squandered. But the feelings didn't. After
eight weeks of travel, I ginned up this working
definition for a dysfunctional family: any family with
more than one person in it.
Maybe coming-of-age memoirs are being bought and read
by the boatload precisely because they offer some window
into other people's whacked-out families, with which
nearly everyone born in the fractured baby-boom era can
identify. They also guarantee a central character
emotionally engaged in a family narrative. Any writer's
voice even an omniscient, third-person narrator's
in fiction serves as a character in the text. But
in memoir, the alleged "truth" of a given voice
makes it somehow more emotionally compelling. It
announces itself as real. Because family memoir lodges us
in a writer's personal history, we can almost see the
voice being shaped by factors of geography,
socio-economics, psychology. Like a ghost that assembles
itself from mist, so the writer's self seems to appear
from her voice. Believe this, the autobiographer says,
it's real. If metafiction has been working
double-overtime to explode the lie that fiction is true,
memoir somewhat reestablishes the reader's dream.
Of course, most readers doubt the absolute veracity of
a memoir's reconstructed dialogue and so forth. Tobias
Wolff noted in a recent lecture at Syracuse University
that all memory involves imagination and vice-versa. Some
memoirs also clearly wander into the realm of the
fantastic to construct what read like family myths
Maxine Hong Kingston's Woman Warrior, for
instance. There the author steals her Chinese mother's
method of "talking-story" to meld her own
somewhat conflicting Chinese and American selves.
Still, we presume that the truth's skeleton underlay
Hong Kingston's tale. So the character speaking to us
from those events also feels, in some way, like a more
real escort through the drama than a fictional
narrator's. However "real" Ishmael may seem in Moby
Dick, Mary McCarthy offers me as a reader what feels
like greater intimacy with a living character in Memories
of a Catholic Girlhood.
Don't get me wrong. Greater intimacy with a narrator
isn't always what a reader wants: I haven't given up
reading novels. But in the cocooned isolation we occupy
at this millennium's end, a friendly voice on a page has
A child's voice or perspective can also open the often
firmly locked door to a reader's own memories of youth.
When I read in Harry Crews's A Childhood how that
backwoods Georgia boy made up stories about models in the
Sears catalog, I identified with it wholesale, even
though I grew up far from the savage poverty Crews lays
"Nearly everybody I knew had something
missing, a finger cut off, a toe split, an eye
clouded with blindness from a glancing fence
staple.... I knew that under those [Sears models']
fancy clothes, there had to be swellings and boils of
one kind or another because there was no other way to
live in the world."
Anybody would twig to some universal truth about the
childhood Crews describes here, I think. We all lose our
innocence in part by coming to marvel at the rift between
one's private life family fights, say and
the glossy families sold by the media. Crews's voice
conjures that innocence for us, the time when a family
universe was still so colossal that you could project
that reality onto the lives of strangers. Crews's private
experience ultimately overrode the lie of the Sears
catalog. The stories he made up with his friend gave him,
he later wrote, "an overwhelming sense of well-being
and profound power."
Crews's survival is also encouraging, a testimony of
sorts. In a class on memoir I taught at Syracuse
University last year, my students puzzled me at the
term's end by praising the genre's sense of hope. Of the
dark and dire stories we'd read mental
institutions for Susanna Kaysen and rape for Maya Angelou
hope didn't seem the leading emotion (except
perhaps in Henry Louis Gates's Colored People).
"They lived to write books," one student said.
"They grew up and got away from their parents,"
said another. The fact that the writers outlived their
troubled pasts, walked out of them into adulthood,
ultimately served as empowering for that class of
Not everyone's so wowed by what memoir offers up.
William Gass took a hard swipe at the whole genre in Harper's
last May ("Autobiography in the Age of
Narcissism") primarily scolding the genre's lack of
truth. "The autobiographer is likely to treat
records with less respect than he should....
Autobiographers flush before examining their
For "truth" Gass favors history without
bothering to note as Tobias Wolff did in the
aforementioned lecture that historians are no more
neutral toward their subjects than memoirists are. Nor
can such primary sources as letters and diaries be
construed as "objective." Gass also neglected
history's glaring failures. My high school history text
cheerfully described the westward migration without a
glance at the native peoples whose bones got plowed under
in the process.
Gass also praised fiction for veracity because it
doesn't announce itself as true. I could borrow that same
reasoning to defend memoir for its blatant subjectivity.
In our time we've watched most great sources of
"objective" truth churches and
scientific studies and presidents among them
topple in terms of their moral authority. So any pose of
authority can seem the ultimate fakery. In this way,
Michael Herr's psychedelic memoir of Vietnam, Dispatches,
seems way more authentic to me in describing that war
than the Defense Department's records
"objectively" assembled under Robert McNamara.
In our loneliness for some sense that we're behaving
well inside our very isolated families, personal
experience has assumed some new power. Just as the novel
form once took up experiences of urban, industrialized
society that weren't being handled in epic poems or
epistles, so memoir reliant on a single, intensely
personal voice for its unifying glue wrestles
subjects in a way that readers of late find compelling.
The good ones I've read confirm my experience in a flawed
family. They reassure me the way belonging to a community
My bookstore chats did the same. On the road, I came
to believe despite the dire edicts from Newt
Gingrich and the media about the moral, drug-besotted
quagmire into which we've all sunk that our
families are working, albeit in new forms. People have
gone on birthing babies and burying their dead and loving
those with whom they shared troubled patches of history.
We do this partly by telling stories fictional and
non-fictional ones in voices that neither deny
family struggles nor make demons of our beloveds.
Mary Karr grew up near Port Arthur, Texas.
She has won Pushcart Prizes for both her poetry and her
essays, and her work appears in such magazines as Granta,
Parnassus, Vogue, Esquire, Poetry,
The New Yorker, and The American Poetry Review.
Her two volumes of poetry are The Devil's Tour and
Abacus. She has been awarded grants from the NEA,
the Whiting Foundation, the Bunting Institute at
Radcliffe, and others. Karr has been featured in numerous
publications, including The New York Times Magazine,
Harper's Bazaar, and Mirabella.
The Liars' Club, which has appeared on
bestseller lists across the country, is the winner of the
PEN/Martha Albrand Award and the Texas Institute of
Letters Prize for Best Nonfiction. It was named a
finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award and
selected as an American Library Association Notable Book.
The Liars' Club was chosen as one of the best
books of 1995 by People, Time, The
New Yorker, and Entertainment Weekly. Karr,
who has worked as a Fellow at the Harvard Business School
and as a crawfish trucker in Texas, currently teaches
literature and creative writing at Syracuse University.
She lives in upstate New York with her son.
Q: In the introduction to this piece
you say that any family with more than one person is
dysfunctional. Why do you feel this way?
A: If dysfunction means that a family
doesn't work, then every family ambles into some arena in
which that happens, where relationships get strained or
even break down entirely. We fail each other or
disappoint each other. That goes for parents, siblings,
kids, marriage partners the whole enchilada.
Obviously, these failures cover a spectrum. The parent
who beats a kid insensibly on a regular basis registers
differently on the disappointment-meter from the one who
doesn't deliver a pony for Christmas. Probably the vast
majority of families fall between these two poles.
Nevertheless, I believe that every tribe has to
accommodate a wide range of behavior from its members.
Illness and death, which we're taught in this country to
view as aberrant, actually afflict us all. Depression
hits everybody from time to time. The current figures on
alcoholism vary, but I heard a lecture once where someone
claimed that five percent of the population consumes
ninety percent of the liquor sold. You can bet that
segment of the population causes considerable strain on
those near and dear. When people suffer their
relationships usually suffer as well. Period. And we all
suffer because, as the Buddha says, that's the nature of
being human and wanting stuff we don't always get.
Q: You also talk about the popularity
of memoirs about dysfunctional families in post-baby-boom
America. Is dysfunction a particularly American
phenomenon? Or is interest in reading about it?
A: Probably readers' intense interest
in scaldingly tough family lives is an American
phenomenon, but I'm no expert. The only other country
I've ever lived in is England, where I encountered much
sneering about our narcissistic interest in therapies,
self-help, twelve-step recovery, etcet. Still, their
rates of divorce and alcoholism are up like ours. Their
families have probably endured the same upheavals in
structure. The Liars' Club has done well over
there, and my British publisher described the same boom
in memoir over there that we've seen here.
The fact that America's so geographically vast adds a
factor the Brits don't have how far-flung we are
from our beloveds, who traditionally helped us with an
occasional bag of groceries or an afternoon of
Q: What memoirs that you've read have
inspired you the most? Did any of them influence the way
you conceived your own?
A: The memoirs I adore were all
stolen from shamelessly. As a junior in high school, I
read Maya Angelou's I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings.
That she wrote about a rural, Southern, working-class
family was a revelation to me. The peasants in Tolstoy
were one thing, but Angelou showed me literature's
characters didn't have to be limited to the ruling
classes, with which I had virtually no truck. The same
held true for Harry Crews's Childhood: Biography of a
Place. Plus Crews drew more heavily on the vernacular
than Angelou did. Maxine Hong Kingston showed me in Woman
Warrior that you could write about feminist issues
without either being didactic or painting yourself as
some slobbering victim. In my early twenties I had the
great privilege of meeting both Geoffrey and Tobias Wolff
at Goddard College where I went to grad school. Their
books The Duke of Deception and This
Boy's Life, respectively showed me the virtues
of humor. Plus their very different prose styles and that
of other master writers Frank Conroy, for
instance, in Stop-time (available from Penguin)
showed me that memoir's an art, even if
historically an outsider's art. There's no reason it
can't be as well written as fiction, even if structurally
it's more episodic.
Other memoirs I'm passionate enough about to have
taught include Mary McCarthy's Memories of a Catholic
Girlhood, George Orwell on Burma and his Homage to
Catalonia, St. Augustine's Confessions,
Audre Lorde's Zami: A New Spelling of My Name, G.
H. Hardy's A Mathematician's Apology, John Edgar
Wideman's Brothers and Keepers, Michael Herr's Dispatches
about Vietnam, Susanna Kaysen's Girl, Interrupted,
Henry Louis Gates's Colored People, and Robert
Graves's Goodbye to All That.
Q: Where did you get your
storytelling ability and how did you develop it?
A: The idiom in this book is my
daddy's mostly, the densely poetic idiom I grew up with
in East Texas. To say "it's raining like a cow
pissing on a flat rock" is to utter a line of
poetry. The phrase is metaphorical. It's physically
accurate in evoking the kind of head-bashing
thunderstorms you get from the Gulf. Plus it works at the
bounds of social propriety, which is where writers often
go to find difficult truths that haven't been written to
death already. It also grows out of a milieu that's
seldom written about one in which cows piss on
flat rocks and people stand around to marvel at it.
Q: How does your work as a poet enter
into your prose writing? Did it influence The Liars'
A: Poetry started as an oral art. So
I always listened to stories, and my work as a poet makes
me migrate to metaphor, trying to learn the truth about
one thing by looking at something like it. As a poet,
I've also tried to cultivate a precision of language that
would probably help anybody write anything better. In
Ezra Pound's Cantos there's a Chinese idiom that
he favors a single ray of sunlight coming like a
lance to rest at an exact place in an honest man's heart.
Pound likened this to Dante's notion of verbum perfecium,
the word made perfect. That's a lofty goal, but poetry
urges you toward it.
Poetry also makes one a compulsive reviser. I can do
as many as sixty drafts trying to feel my way into
whatever's interesting or true in a poem. My editing
style is to slash and burn. That helped, but I also had
to severely limit myself to three drafts of each chapter;
otherwise, it would have taken twenty years to write this
book instead of two and a half. Viking would never have
paid me, and I needed the money. Bad.
Q: In The Liars' Club you
describe several years of your childhood and then shoot
forward seventeen years to recount your father's death.
Why did you choose to structure your story the way you
A: The mystery I set up at the start
of the book had that shape by my measure: Why did my
mother have the psychotic episode that started the book?
What fueled her on the wild tear I described in those
first two sections? I hoped the reader wanted to know the
answer to that question, so I didn't want to drag him or
her kicking and screaming through every meal I ate my
entire life to reach the point where her secret was
unearthed. While I was writing, I worried my editor about
how I'd pole vault through history for seventeen years.
Then I hit on it: "Seventeen years later..." We
do that all the time telling stories to each other and
permit the loss of time, so why not in print. Plus that
loss of seventeen years gave me another passel of books
to write, I hope.
Q: What advice would you give to
someone who would like to write a memoir?
A: Tobias Wolff wrote me a brilliant
letter while I was at Radcliffe College trying to start
this book. "Take no care for your dignity," he
said. "Don't be afraid of appearing angry,
small-minded, obtuse, mean, immoral, amoral, calculating,
or anything else." He also warned me against the
kind of stultifying, moralizing didacticism that plagues
all bad writing. "Don't approach your history as
something to be shaken for its cautionary fruits. Tell
your stories, and your story will be revealed." I
kept that taped above my computer while I worked along
with the poem by Zbigniew Herbert translated from the
Polish that I quote at the start of the book's third
section. They were the mojos I held up against the
literary bullshit to which I'm prone.
Q: What are you working on now?
A: I initially sold The Liars'
Club as a Stop-time for girls, but I never got
past that one childhood drama into the drama of puberty,
which is the swamp into which I've currently waded. So
I'm working on a sequel that details my somewhat
"The Liars' Club is a classic of American
literature.... Mary Karr conjures the simmering heat and
bottled rage of life in a small Texas oil town with an
intensity that gains power from the fact that it's
fact." James Atlas, The New York Times
"An astonishing book.... Her most powerful tool
is her language, which she wields with the virtuosity of
both a lyric poet and an earthy, down-home Texan.... One
of the most dazzling and moving memoirs to come along in
years." Michiko Kakutani, The New York
"This book is so good I thought about sending it
out for a back-up opinion.... It's like finding Beethoven
in Hoboken. To have a poet's precision of language and a
poet's gift for understanding emotion and a poet's
insight into people applied to one of the roughest,
toughest, ugliest places in America is an astounding
event." Molly Ivins, The Nation
"A triumphant achievement in the art of memoir
and the art of living.... Karr fills her turbulent pages
with a prose as pungent and zesty as a Gulf Coast
"Crackles with energy and wit...a wild and wooly
contribution to the annals of American childhood."
The Los Angeles Times Book Review
"Her literary instincts are extraordinary....
Karr has the poet's gift for finding something huge and
unsayable in a single image...gothic wit and stunning
clarity of memory." The Boston Globe
"The essential American story.... The Liars'
Club is a beauty." Jonathan Yardley, The
Washington Post Book World
A major theme running through The Liars' Club
is the difference between Mary Karr's parents.
"With Mother," Karr writes, "I
always felt on the edge of something new,
something never before seen or read about or
bought, something that would change us.... With
Daddy and his friends, I always knew what would
happen and that left me feeling a sort of dreamy
safety." Karr's mother is artistic and
glamorous, while her father is down-to-earth. How
do these contrasts lay the foundation for the
Karr's family life? Did you empathize with one
parent more than the other? Did your feelings
change as the book went on and more was revealed
Despite the horror that permeated Karr's
childhood, characteristics like humor, honesty,
and courage pervade The Liars' Club. Karr
does not pass judgment on her family or tell us
how she thought they should have behaved. Would
you have liked to have known more about Karr's
feelings about the events that she recounts? In
what instances? Or were you able to discern how
she felt through her actions? What emotions did
you experience while reading The Liars' Club?
Karr is a character in her own book, as well as
its author. On the page, she's a tough, scrappy
kid who also has a tremendous sensitivity and
devotion to the people around her. As readers, we
understand the interior joys and terrors that
make her such a rich and vivid character. How do
you think she seemed to the people around her? If
her mother was to make a list of her strongest
characteristics, what would they be? If her
father made such a list, would it differ in any
Karr tells her story for the most part from the
point of view of a child, and what a child sees
and understands. How might the story and
Karr's perceptions change if she had told
it from the point of view of an adult, with the
benefit of everything she has come to understand
about her upbringing and her family? What would
be gained, and what would be lost?
The author's mother, Charlie Marie, never fully
realized her dreams of becoming an artist. The
author, who as child began to write poetry, was
able to realize her creative ambitions. What gave
Karr the strength to pursue that ambition? Was it
"sheer cussedness," one of the traits
that characterized her as a child? Do you think
the sadness of her mother's unfulfilled dreams
somehow propelled her? Do you think it had
anything to do with her relationship with her
How would you characterize Karr's relationship
with her sister, Lecia? Does it change as the
After Karr's grandmother dies she sings,
"Ding dong the witch is dead." Were you
surprised that she was happy her grandmother
passed away? What in the grandmother's character
was so oppressive? Do you think her grandmother
contributed to her mother's despair and
alcoholism? How important a part did she play in
In a recent interview Karr said that she had
previously tried to write a novel based on her
childhood experiences: "When I tried to
write about my life in a novel, I discovered that
I behaved better in fiction than I did in real
life. The truth is that I found it easier to lie
in a novel, and what I wanted most of all was to
tell the truth." What do you think of this
statement? Karr's father was famous for the tales
he told during meetings of the Liars' Club. At
any point did you feel that the author was
perhaps altering or stretching the truth?
In the introduction to this guide, Karr states
that while on tour to promote The Liars' Club
people from all walks of life told her they
identified with her story. Do you identify with
the Karr family? Did this influence you while you
were reading the book? Is it "the essential
American story," as one reviewer stated?
All But the Waltz: Essays on a Montana Family
by Mary Clearman Blew
Blew's great-grandparents settled in the Montana
territory in 1882, and she traces her family roots and
embarks on a journey of self-discovery.
American Girl: Scenes from a Small-Town Childhood by Mary Cantwell
The former New York Times editor recalls
growing up in the seaside town of Bristol, Rhode Island
during the 1940s and '50s.
A Life of Her Own
The Transformation of a Countrywoman in 20th-Century
by Emilie Carles
In this international bestseller, Carles reflects on
her long and full life and the many roles she played,
among them teacher, farmer, feminist, and political
The Concubine's Children
The Story of a Chinese Family Living on Two Sides of the
by Denise Chong
May-ying came to North America as a concubine to a man
who left his family behind in China. Chong, her
granddaughter, describes how her curiosity led to a
family reunion six decades later.
by Ivan Doig
In the prequel to the acclaimed This House of Sky,
Doig explores his childhood in the American West and his
rediscovery of his mother, who died on his sixth
The Way of a Boy: A Memoir of Java
by Ernest Hillen
During World War II, seven-year-old Hillen was taken
prisoner in Java by the Japanese, where he survived three
and a half years in captivity.
Lost in Translation: A Life in a New Language
by Eva Hoffman
At age thirteen, the Polish-born Hoffman moved to
Canada with her family. She details here the hardships
she faced adjusting to a new, bicultural identity.
by Arthur Miller
The Pulitzer Prize-winning author provides a close
look at his boyhood in Depression-era Brooklyn, his
successes and failures in the theater, and his marriage
to Marilyn Monroe.
Volunteer Slavery: My Authentic Negro Experience
by Jill Nelson
In her account of four years writing for The
Washington Post, the journalist offers a scalding
expose of the respected newspaper's
racial, sexual, and corporate politics.
Days of Obligation: An Argument with My Mexican
Father by Richard Rodriguez
Essayist Rodriguez ranges over five centuries to
consider the moral and spiritual landscapes of Mexico and
the United States and their impact on his soul.
Drinking the Rain
by Alix Kates Shulman
At the age of fifty, the author of Memoirs of an
Ex-Prom Queen left behind a hectic city life and
divorce for solitude on an island off the coast of Maine.
When We Were Colored
by Clifton L. Taulbert
In this acclaimed story, which inspired the major
motion picture Once Upon a Time When We Were Colored,
Taulbert looks back on his childhood in the segregated
Clifton L. Taulbert's second volume of memoirs, The
Last Train North, is also available.
Liar's Club 3.7 out of 5based on
More than 1 year ago
I just finished The Liars' Club last night. Her writing style was, at times, difficult to follow. This book is not for the faint of heart. The events she portrays are at times horrific. I found it difficult at some points, not because I found the situations she writes about shocking, but because they brought up similar memories of my own childhood. At one point I even considered putting the book down because I was flooded with so much backwash from the past. I am glad that I persevered and finished, because the ending was truly worth it. It spoke of healing and things were revealed that shone a different light on her Mother.
I will say the book may not be for everyone. As I have experienced, some folks simply do not want to look in the face of those kinds of evils, those dark realities of life, and honestly, if given a choice, those of us who have experienced such things wouldn't want to either. I admire her courage for revealing not only these kinds of things, but such a personal intimate side of herself for the entire world to read. I am not certain I have that same courage, not just to share those intimate stories of my past, but simply to summon and face again those skeletons and red eyed demons.
More than 1 year ago
I read this years ago, and it remains on my top 5 favorite books I've ever read. Karr blended brutal, sometimes disturbingly graphic, truths with humor and deep insight. She didn't hold back! The gruesome integrity of this book was stunning. I can't say enough good things about it. Really.
More than 1 year ago
I heard Mary Karr started the memoir revolution with this book, but until I read it, I had no idea a memoir could be so fun to read--so funny and sad at the same time. I couldn't put it down. I've bought 8 copies since I closed it, and I'm ready to open it again. Wow
More than 1 year ago
I see that Mary Karr is a noted writer, but I found this memoir hard to follow. The memories and the coherence in the writing were disjointed and just not for me. I have read The Glass Castle by Jeanette Walls so I found this memoir disappointing next to it. I highly recommend The Glass Castle - could not put that memoir down and was sad to finish reading it.
More than 1 year ago
Mary Karr has a lyrical way of writing that is captivating. I loved the book and will plan on reading her latest, LIT.
More than 1 year ago
I kept seeing this title as a recommeded read as I browsed through the internet site and read other's critiques. There is no doubt that this woman can write! Her story is told in a thoughtful manner, honest and intelligent. She doesn't want you to feel sorry for her life nor her circumstances. This book is outstanding and well worth the time it takes to read it! Even if you are not into biographies, read this one!
More than 1 year ago
The Liars¿ Club is a memoir in which Mary Karr describes her difficult and challenging childhood. With an alcoholic mother who wavers in and out of sanity, and a father that would rather work overtime than to deal with his wife¿s outbursts, Mary and her sister, Lecia, are forced to quickly grow up. Mary and Lecia took care of their drunken mother on their own, and were put in near-death situations as a result of her drinking. As a child, Mary gets picked on because of the state her mother is in, and immediately develops an attitude in which she uses profanity and violence as a way to tell the world to leave her alone. Consequently, their family becomes the most feared and gossiped about family in their little town in Texas. Despite the circumstances that Lecia and Mary are put into, they stay with their mother through everything because they love her and don¿t want to see her die as a result of her bad habit. The major message in this book is that family is more important than anything else. The reasons behind the mother¿s actions will eventually be revealed to Mary and the reader, and they are all based on family ties. Even though Mary¿s mother put her in bad situations and didn¿t take care of her as a mother should, Mary still loved her. In a family, there is a tight bond where unconditional love is always present, but isn¿t shown until a family is put into a difficult situation. Karr¿s detailed account of her childhood is amazing. She remembers the smallest details so vividly, but still tells the story through her memory, which doesn¿t always hold all of the answers and outcomes of what happened. She makes the story feel as if it happened to you. The reader can feel her pain, anguish and embarrassment as she recalls horrifying experiences. Simultaneously, Karr¿s detailed accounts of her often boring life can lead the reader to also feel bored with the book. Not only are her most horrifying and challenging experiences included in the book, but she also includes all of the less captivating experiences in between. If you like memoirs, then this book is probably for you. It is hard to believe that Karr was put through so much as a child, and yet her family survived. After reading this book, it can make almost anyone grateful that they have a better life than she did, and make those with rough lives understand that anything can be overcome.
More than 1 year ago
Remi bites his lip as he knocks on the door. He rakes a hand through his hair, waiting in silence.
More than 1 year ago
He nocked on the door
More than 1 year ago
The guy sat on his bed, texting his friends as he waited for his fiance
More than 1 year ago
More than 1 year ago
Karr's languageis a marvel that jumps from the page into 3-D power. Great storytelling. Loved it.
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The Liars' Club is an amazing story about the childhood of a girl. This story tears me apart at times with how emotional it can get. Karr's writing style is amazing! She's a real work of art!
More than 1 year ago
More than 1 year ago
The Liar’s Club is a story about growing up poor in an East Texas industrial town. It’s the tragic story of two sisters as told by the youngest and their deeply dysfunctional family. The whole book is so beautifully written I didn’t grasp how wrong everything was until it was summing up.
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Different, unique - not what i expected after reading today's "child abuse" memoirs.
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