Autobiography or autobiographical fiction -- one could split the proverbial literary hair to no end. It comes down to this: words on a medium (preferably one that can show the words) reveal in some format the soul of said Writer/Artist/Human. In many ways, it is the ultimate self-portrait, control fetish, and ego pleasure. Damaged gives a romp and rough ride of what a sensitive soul of the artist and author can be like. It also shows what it takes to survive.

That, of course, is the cynical point of view. Not all autobiographical writings are such things, however. Some bring forth certain ideas, clarify some questions, or more often than not, tell the reader some detail about whom they are reading and gain a response of some kind. Even an unresponsive behavior is a response. But in the case of Jack Slutzky's creation, Damaged, I gained insight not only into a fascinating man but a personal mentor and former instructor of mine.

The language and settings are raw and written with broad strokes of color. As it is with the man, there are few, if any, nuances. It's all right there, in your face as you read it. If you are looking for poetry of words, subtle phrases, soaring climaxes and panoramic historical drama, move on. But if you want a right there, right now, blunt look at one man's human condition, you've come to the right book. As former student, reading about my teacher's sexual exploits caused this very prim student to squirm. But I got over it, and soon decided to simply see him for the mystery and mastery of his element he always seemed to be.

Shakespeare may have written of the tangled webs we weave, but  Slutzky's Damaged shows, more often than not, it is the dance around the sledge-hammered potholes of life that really tells the tale.

 
Reviewed By: Nancy Louise
© September 7, 2007