One benefit of holding a job of high import at the New York Times is that when you write a book, outlets line up to review it (Bruni Listage coming up, btw), including the esteemed Sunday Book Review. As it just so happens the Review is reviewing Brunz's Born Round this very weekend, and according to a tipster with a copy (not yet online), it's a looooovefest. Exhibit A:
His writing has always been muscular and clear. Now that I have devoured his memoir, I hold him in even greater estimation, not only for his discernment and his accomplished prose but for his bravery.
Ok, Dominique Browning, so you're impressed. But how about sending some more kisses Bruni's way? Exhibit B:
The love with which Bruni writes about his family is breathtaking. His relationship with his mother was one of ferocious tenderness; as I read Bruni's description of her struggle with cancer, I choked with tears.
If she hasn't sold it yet, just try to resist after the closing paragraph:
Bruni's prose is as robust as his story; he clearly enjoys writing as much as eating. He is also, at times, very funny. But the best thing about Born Round is that it is so embarrassingly, inspiringly honest. For a guy who has spent much of his life too mortified to take off his coat, this is one laid-bare story. Bruni is open about failed relationships, anger at friends and siblings, crippling insecurity, masturbation (the one time I winced: uh, overshare), guilt and grief. His book does what a memoir should: it entertains and edifies, voicing pain that otherwise many endure in loneliness. It promises to give comfort to souls being confused or betrayed by their bodies. Such staggering generosity: Born Round is like the Italian dinners Bruni loves - served up noisy, fun, heaping and delicious. Bruni's readers, at least, are lucky he was born round.
Home run for Boom Boom Bruni!
