Mr. Augusten Burroughs is a very lucky man. With an elementary school education, a history of alcoholism, a Nicorette gum and nicotine patch addiction (at the same time), a dysfunctional childhood, and a severe deficiency in willpower, he has somehow been blessed with a loving partner with extraordinary financial success, a darling home life with several dogs, and the number one position on the bestseller list with his previous book, Running with Scissors.

His latest collection of autobiographical personal essays, however, should not be construed as a fluffy bildungsroman filled with life's little tragedies and victories to make the reader sympathetic to the circumstances Burroughs faced and to make us marvel at the bijou strangeness of our world. Rather, we simply come to know him as a person, mistakes and all, through his brutally honest yet understated stories about his life as a writer and his personal failures and sins.

It's no mistake that his book is named Possible Side Effects. I went in expecting it to consist of a provocatively quirky collection of anecdotes so bizarre they had to be real, or at least believed for long enough for me to finish the book. What I got was the equivalent of Burroughs' French bulldog named Cow, with habits strange enough for me to want to give him back, except I couldn't because I knew him too well already. 

In an even more unusual turn, I realized I had started falling into a sense of security with the author's perverse obsessions. In an all-too-meta sense, I was peeping into his life, and through the book it seemed that he made light of my welcome intrusion even as he acknowledged his own issues, his slovenly apartment and pre-perfect partner, his alcoholism, his peeping Tom habit, his relationship with his mentally ill mother, his love for eating Betty Crocker frosting straight out of the tub, his use of giant blown-up photos of pornography to punish traffic violators, and even his delight in watching shoplifters get away with their crimes during his stint as a security guard. I simply couldn't resist. How could this have come to be?

He begins the book with a relatively innocuous story, "Pest Control," the tale of how a young Augusten, on the verge of losing a tooth, is terrified of tales of the Tooth Fairy. When he finds the blood on his pillow, his tooth on the sheets, and no money underneath the pillow, his panicked reaction sends his grandmother running. Pieced together as a classic Southern dame from the start of the story, she explains that the Tooth Fairy was confused and put a hundred-dollar bill in her wallet instead of under Augusten's pillow. Her explanation, that she's lost all her teeth, is accentuated by removing all her dentures for the boy to see. It's a messy, unusual, and funny story, but that's not what sets the tone for the rest of the book.

Many of Burroughs' essays contain a sad, vindictive ending, unrepentant in much the same way he often is: "Unclear Sailing" highlights his lack of education, and his hatred of his far more educated employer. "Moving Violations," where he uses pornography to shock bad drivers into good behavior; "Peep," about his experiences as a peeping Tom who can't help himself; "Taking Tests, Taking Things," where he enjoys watching the shoplifters he's supposed to catch as a security guard; "Fetch," where he pretends to commit suicide to get a dog; and "The Georgia Thumper," detailing his hatred for his maternal grandmother, display similarly guilt-free endings.

Yet many of Burroughs' other essays show remarkable insight and sober acknowledgement of his problems, as well as the serenity of others with just as many problems. Unfortunately, he also outlines his own helplessness within that context. Nevertheless, there is a remarkable sensitivity in how he treats many of the people he truly cares for. In "Wisdom Tooth," a vacation meticulously planned by his partner goes wackily wrong, to the extent where Augusten starts losing his teeth. Augusten reflects that his partner, Dennis, really is too good for him, and that for their next vacation, he will stick with Dennis with no complaints, even if he loses all his teeth.

In "The Wonder Boy," he attempts to cheer up his manic-depressive mother by pretending he has telekinesis, but even this fails to reawaken her past enthusiasm for his "psychic" abilities. The disappointment he feels is palpable in the silence with which he ends the essay. In "Little Crucifixions" and "The Forecast for Sommer," he worships people who have overcome events that destroyed their lives as they knew it. The latter is almost an epitaph for a friend of his mother's, quiet and respectful, showing a remarkable flexibility to his command of language.

Many of his stories revolve around his twin addictions: alcoholism, which he's conquered, and nicotine, which he seemingly revels in. In "Locked Out," being unable to enter his filthy apartment forces him to realize how far he's allowed himself to fall, and in wishing for a new start, he inadvertently finds himself writing a new one. His return to alcoholism after his release from rehab is made worse when he fails to care for a puppy; unexpectedly, the ASPCA woman jolts him awake to how roughed up he is ("Kitty, Kitty"). His cravings for nicotine, likewise, are deplorably excessive; he wears a nicotine patch and voraciously chews Nicorette at the same time, regardless of anybody's recommendations ("You've Come a Long Way, Baby!").

Not everything is dark and malformed in Burroughs' collection. The dark humor running through every story is often lightened by random anecdotes that seem to have no purpose beyond mockery and gleeful mischievousness. Augusten buys John Updikes on eBay in hopes they'll be worth a fortune when Updike passes. He helps his "lipstick lesbian" friend write the longest personal ad in the newspaper. As a child, he believes Santa Claus is a Chinese man with allergies after having been read Christmas stories by a Chinese woman in grade school. When he hits the quagmire of 30 years old, he frees himself from a terrible blind date, only to realize 30 isn't so bad after all.

Among the dark humor, the depression, and the perverse pleasure he takes out of his zany life, Augusten Burroughs displays all he has to give for the reader. Through it all, he is undeniably himself, no more, no less. And we can't help but watch.

Jennifer Z. Gong '07 is currently reading Gormenghast by Mervyn Peake.