Read an excerpt from Beethoven's memoir, as written by Declan Gallagher, to be published when he becomes a famous pianist.
Note: Mature language and content
For the first three and a half years of high school, I shared not a single pleasantry with C.B. He was never the worst of my tormentors, but did appear to glean some vague merriment from it. C.B. never put his hands on me, but he was there with all the rest of them every time I got my “faggot ass” kicked. (Should I have hyphenated “faggot-ass”? I suppose that’s something for the editor to figure out.) We had been close in middle school—actually, ever since we were single digits—and I had always liked C.B. the most out of our group of friends. He was a fool, but there was never any malice to his behavior. He was trying his hardest to please, and as I recall he never did a great job of it. But in that good-hearted failure laid his charm, at least for my part. C.B. was the only other person I knew growing up—amend that, the only person I’ve ever met still to this day—who seemed to share my temperament. I always felt, and still do feel, he could be a great novelist some day. In eighth grade, after years of thinking this, I secretly christened him Charles Bukowski, but only after a party in which he drank so much as to black out and urinate himself. Twice.
Of course, summer before ninth grade, everything changed, as you’ve read in pages past. (Or perhaps you decided to skip that section, in which case I wouldn’t blame you.) Suddenly, I was the outcast, and naively, so stubbornly, I thought, At least C.B. will continue to acknowledge my existence in a positive way. Come the first day of ninth grade, C.B. had suddenly decided to wear a varsity jacket and carry a football under his arm all day, every day, (despite his never having made the proper contact with a football), and the last thing he wanted to do was talk to, let alone even remember he used to be close friends with, a “filthy queer”, or “Daddy’s Boy”. In fact it was C.B. himself who, in tenth grade, decided I was an “ass bandit”, despite my never having “banditted” any asses, though I am not unfamiliar to the concept. Then the beatings commenced. And continued. To be continued....
Note: Mature language and content
For the first three and a half years of high school, I shared not a single pleasantry with C.B. He was never the worst of my tormentors, but did appear to glean some vague merriment from it. C.B. never put his hands on me, but he was there with all the rest of them every time I got my “faggot ass” kicked. (Should I have hyphenated “faggot-ass”? I suppose that’s something for the editor to figure out.) We had been close in middle school—actually, ever since we were single digits—and I had always liked C.B. the most out of our group of friends. He was a fool, but there was never any malice to his behavior. He was trying his hardest to please, and as I recall he never did a great job of it. But in that good-hearted failure laid his charm, at least for my part. C.B. was the only other person I knew growing up—amend that, the only person I’ve ever met still to this day—who seemed to share my temperament. I always felt, and still do feel, he could be a great novelist some day. In eighth grade, after years of thinking this, I secretly christened him Charles Bukowski, but only after a party in which he drank so much as to black out and urinate himself. Twice.
Of course, summer before ninth grade, everything changed, as you’ve read in pages past. (Or perhaps you decided to skip that section, in which case I wouldn’t blame you.) Suddenly, I was the outcast, and naively, so stubbornly, I thought, At least C.B. will continue to acknowledge my existence in a positive way. Come the first day of ninth grade, C.B. had suddenly decided to wear a varsity jacket and carry a football under his arm all day, every day, (despite his never having made the proper contact with a football), and the last thing he wanted to do was talk to, let alone even remember he used to be close friends with, a “filthy queer”, or “Daddy’s Boy”. In fact it was C.B. himself who, in tenth grade, decided I was an “ass bandit”, despite my never having “banditted” any asses, though I am not unfamiliar to the concept. Then the beatings commenced. And continued. To be continued....