Naked by David Sedaris
My take several days after completing Sedaris’ Naked is still one of conflicted emotions concerning the author.
On the whole, I thoroughly enjoyed the book and view it as a shining example of a humorist at his peak deftly wielding the dueling weapons of irony and subtlety in this post-modernist world in which we find ourselves today.
With that deep appreciation for his gifts sufficiently noted, along with the accompanying genuflection in his general direction, I can now get to the real meat of my frustration with Mr. Sedaris. He’s a wimp.
Not only that, he’s a bigger wimp than I am. And for those who don’t know me, that’s quite an impressive feat of wimpdom, let me tell you.
Very few books would cause me to alternate so swiftly between fits of uncontrolled chortling and open irritation at the antics (or non-antics) of the protagonist at its very heart.
Granted, as a newcomer to the legion of Sedar-ites out there, I may be reacting this way out of sheer imbalance resulting from the off-putting opening chapters concerning his dysfunctional family life and childhood plague of tics.
Spending the rest of this series of memoirs trying to determine which part of Sedaris’ early family life vignettes are fact and which are fiction could throw anybody off kilter just a little bit.
I found it much more palatable to assume each and every tale an elaborate exaggeration of a very mundane occurance, offering Sedaris ample wiggle room with which to take off on his wild and entertaining tangents of prose.
But, seriously, for someone whose ability to wax satirically and notate with the utmost clarity his inner voice I hold in the highest regard, Sedaris’ passivity continually frustrated the bejesus out of me. Whether the memory of the moment involved his dalliance with an unwanted suitor at an Oregon apple packing plant or the spiritual hypocrite who served as his mentor of pseudo-awakening as well as his employer in a short-time stint as a jade sculptor, the lessons seemed so obviously ripe for Sedaris’ brand of ridicule but only served as a limp base in this after-the-fact storytelling for our benefit.
With the focus on a central character so obviously intelligent and witty (an utterly dangerous combination when used properly), more often than not I found myself let down by an unsatisfying end result to each of his coming-of-age tales.
I’m truly amazed as I recount in my head the various indignities and obnoxious characters Sedaris put up with willingly for the sake of recounting these cherished memories of his for our enjoyment. I just kept hoping upon hope to turn the page and find him standing up to the numbskull who he just spent the last several pages so eloquently degrading in print.
But, no, he would just sit there and take it all in, be it the untalented classmate overshadowing his school-age acting fixation or his own family’s passive stance with regard to his mothers fatal affliction with cancer.
The title track memoir, which neatly frames the book in a life-learned-lessons valediction, concerns a self-dare by the author to spend a week at a nudist colony with the twin aspirations to examine his inhibitions and learn about their universal fascination with the sport of volleyball.
In the end, as was the case with his sisters wedding being the last family gathering involving his mother, the examination itself became more inward even as the focus was on everything around Sedaris. A week spent at a nudist colony was the necessary impetus for seeing everyone as they truly are. If only he weren’t such a wimp about it all.
