Birthday Books: "More Fool Me" by Stephen Fry

"More Fool Me" is the third and by far the least satisfying of the memoirs of writer and actor Stephen Fry. The first third or so of the book is a rehash (a kinder word might be recapitulation) of his first two volumes. The middle concerns anecdotes and memories of his rising show business career and the people he met. And the last third is simply a transcription of his diary for 1993, which, somehow, although it is full of incident and interesting bits, gives the impression of lazy filler, especially because there seems to be no reflection on or analysis of this period of his life, nor any real reason to end the book where it does. There seem to be no lessons to be learned from his experiences; well, it is a memoir and not a moral or biographical tale.  At most there is a mild self-deprecation for being a "fool" for all his dangerous indulgences. There was an overall air of 'Oh, wasn't I a mad lad for being so naughty, and so lucky a duck to get out of it?'

While I was reading it I was plagued with a nagging familiarity, and not only because of his recycled material about his youth from "Moab is My Washpot" (which was an altogether superior production). Sure enough, looking back I saw I had listened to the book on YouTube when I could not get hold of a material copy, but had completely forgotten the experience. Still, I am glad I bought the book, for a variety of reasons.

The shallowest, perhaps, is that it completes the 'trilogy' so far. Fry really is an engaging writer, and the contradictions of his character make a fascinating study. He is a strange bridge between the traditional and the modern, the Apollonian and the Dionysian, the adult and the childish. He loves history, art, literature, and facts in a vacuum. He is, at bottom, an emotional rather than a rational atheist; reading what he says about his father one gets the impression he would rather not have a Heavenly Pater looking at him with the same distant disapproval at his crimes, follies, and choices. 

Otherwise he loves his family and friends, is charitable, enthusiastic, and wants to be liked while at the same time feeling unworthy of love, and prone to fits of depression. I cannot help but like him. Although ineffably smug sometimes, he is like a high-spirited, somewhat homely puppy that cries out for affection as he does his tricks. I wouldn't mind being his friend. I feel sure we would have plenty of interesting discussions and arguments, though I would win very few of them. Even if I was right.