By Stephen Elliott
During this groundbreaking memoir, Stephen Elliott pursues parallel investigations: a gripping account of a infamous San Francisco homicide trial, and an electrical exploration of the self. Destined to be a vintage, The Adderall Diaries used to be defined through The Washington submit as “a severe literary paintings designed to make you notice the realm as you’ve by no means really visible it before.”
“Elliott should be writing less than the effect, yet it's the effect of genius.” —Vanity Fair
“Elliott writes with a grace and precision that calls to brain Truman Capote’s landmark paintings, In chilly Blood. He, too, is serious about questions of cause, how our skill to like is disfigured into evil, and our tangled mechanisms of denial.” —The Boston Globe
“A searing, self-conscious memoir of drug dependancy, obsession and artwork as a way of survival.” —Minneapolis Star-Tribune
“It opens with this line: ‘My father can have killed a man,’ then keeps for 208 taut, high-wire, significant pages . . . With candor so uncooked it makes me by no means are looking to use ‘fiercely honest’ to explain one other writer’s work.” —Las Vegas Weekly
“You won’t discover a extra provocative, masterful, exciting journey than this.” —San Francisco Chronicle
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Additional resources for The Adderall Diaries: A Memoir
It was a regular radio play for me from then on with sound effects and all. I saw nothing; heard everything. And I heard plenty. Raftner was speaking and his voice was soft, pleasant. “I heard about you, Armin—One Man Armin. Yes, one man—running a great racket; building up for this great racket until you became head of it. I thought Frank Morse was at the top. When he died I thought Gentle Jim Corrigan was head of it, and when he died—I knew the real head. The last man to be suspected because you built up the one-man idea, the working-alone idea.
And I made it—at least I was lying on my stomach on top of it. Getting inside was another thing. One leg at a time didn’t seem to work, but I finally managed to get on my feet, straddling with one foot on either side of the thick circular rim around the top of the neck. Why so fancy? Well, I wanted another chance to look inside that vase, with the flash directed straight in. I felt for my flash; the vase wobbled. I regained my balance, breathed a sigh of relief, then stuck my feet together and dropped right into that vase.
I have seen the real thing. Criminals turned into mad dogs by dope, murders and tortures, decent women leaving their husbands and children and walking the streets because of it. Young lives ruined, old lives taken by a jump from a window. Of course I couldn’t let lugs like Armin or Raftner tell me where to get off but when I reached Conklyn Lee’s old brown-stone front, I like to think there was something else beside that urging me—something of the crusader if you want to go DeMille on me. Lee let me in himself and I followed him down the hall to the library.