Confessions of a Junkie Philosopher
Matt Rowland Hill, Original Sins
Vintage, 320pp, £16.99, ISBN 9781784743826
reviewed by Sean Russell
There is a paradox at play when it comes to memoir. On the one hand is the attempt to be honest about one’s life, and on the other is the mask we all wear — the way we wish to be seen versus the way we want to see ourselves. Does a memoir ever truly go behind the mask, or is it just another performative aspect of it? The very act of writing a memoir — or, at the very least, seeking to publish a memoir — is to present oneself as one wishes to be seen. The paradox lies here: by examining the mask, one can learn about a person anyway; it tells the reader something about that person even if it is not the whole, deeper truth.
Matt Rowland Hill holds up his own mask for much of his memoir before allowing us to peak behind it at the end. Original Sins, Hill’s first book, tells the story of his upbringing as the son of an evangelical Baptist minister, his own fall from religious grace, his ‘descent’ into a masturbation habit, his somewhat elite education at a ‘Famous School’ (Harrow, one presumes), and his discovery of heroin at university (Oxford?). We follow him as he struggles with his addiction, loafing around in needle-strewn dens and stealing from those closest to him. We then witness his attempts to get clean in rehab centres and we finish with a final, somewhat spiritual realisation as Hill enrols in a 10-day silence and Vipassana meditation retreat.
The links between religion, masturbation and drugs are clear and seem natural throughout. Here he writes about masturbation when he was a teenager:
This could quite easily have been written later in the book once Hill had become addicted to heroin. Ashamedly masturbating in a toilet later becomes shooting up in bathrooms, hoping no one hears or sees. These bits of foreshadowing make the memoir into a complete whole, bookended neatly by spirituality: beginning with the religion of his parents and finishing with the religion-adjacent retreat. It is a natural progression from one addiction to another. He is a man of extremes, not moderation. It’s not enough to believe in God, he desires to be a minister like his father; it’s not enough to masturbate occasionally, it must be any and every time the feeling takes him; it’s not enough to dip into drugs, he becomes an addict.
Somewhat later in the book, Hill writes that he was only ever completely honest with one person: his one-time partner Maria. This rings true, and unfortunately the reader is not Maria. Hill manages to avoid the ‘pity me’ memoir by sprinkling his dark, sometimes disgusting, stories of addiction with humour. I probably shouldn't have laughed at the first story of him shitting himself after shooting up, and much of the masturbation section is relatable enough to make me chuckle. But here is the problem: he gets far too wrapped up in his image of himself as what I would call ‘the Junkie Philosopher’.
The Junkie Philosopher is, essentially, an intellectual with a habit — think William S. Burroughs or Will Self. They seem to feel that their addictions, and therefore the worlds they inhabit, have given them some unique insight into the human condition, and this may be true to some extent. Hill while retelling his years of using, never lets go of this image of himself. He relates stories of his habit — stealing and borrowing money from shady characters, drug-dealers with burner phones, overdosing, death — in a distant and standoffish style; it's as if he is aestheticising his struggle rather than merely recounting it.
Hill writes vividly and with clarity, but I could have done without certain attempts at profundity which fall flat:
I have no doubt that is how he feels about his own life but it’s hard to believe most people feel that life is just pain management. I’m inclined to agree with him again when he writes, later on: ‘Around other people I tried to impersonate someone who had the answer for all the important questions.’In many ways we do in fact see the real Hill when he holds up his mask, just not the ‘authentic’ Hill Maria sees.
This is not to say Hill is lying about anything — I think he is honest about what happened and the things he did — just that the Junkie Philosopher mask holds us back from ever learning about the deeper realities of the disease of addiction. He is a good storyteller; the book moves through at pace, in sparse prose which rarely lets up for extraneous description. His matter-of-fact style is refreshing. But it is not until the final hundred pages that this talent is combined with real insight into himself. Finally, perhaps humbled by his own tale, Hill abandons the Junkie Philosopher mask when it comes to his story of trying to get clean.
When the chapter ‘Forty Days’ begins, Hill is exhausted and has attempted to take his own life by overdose. He has stolen from Maria to fund his habit and has staged a burglary to justify it. He has lied to the only person he was always honest with. When the Junkie Philosopher is stripped away, we are left with just Matt and the memoir is all the better for it. He pushes against the rehab centre initially, but his mother comes back into his life and, far from the teenage-like interactions from earlier in the book, Hill reveals something of his relationship with her, real understanding. He realises she is another person in the world dealing with her own ‘pain management’: ‘I knew how to engage her in exasperating theological debate, but I had no idea how to deal with her kindness.’ Later, when he asks her why everything was so hard growing up, a topic never broached before this, she says she was simply tired, at the end of her tether, worried about money. Hill relates: ‘I know the feeling. I'm tired too.’
Hill relapses after a bit of heartbreak and tragically tries to overdose again, but the final part of the book follows his strongest attempt at getting clean yet. This story is told interwoven with his experience of the Vipassana retreat. I myself have been on the same retreat and Hill does a fine job explaining the true process without hysterics. Stories of these retreats are often told with exuberance, as if one were to have mystic visions and sudden Bodhi-tree moments of illumination. My own experience was far more mundane, but with no less a profound effect. We learn more about Hill and his insecurities and worries and fears in these last 100 pages than we do any of the preceding chapters. His insights into wanting to die are particularly moving.
Perhaps that's how Hill intended it; perhaps he wanted to show how he was, how he wore his mask, how he protected himself and hid behind the Junkie Philosopher persona as if to say, ‘this is how I was, mask and all, but after everything I managed to drop it’. If all he says is true, then it was a horrible, painful time; it probably hurt less behind the mask. The memoir is, perhaps, the weaker for it though. We see Hill as he wishes to be seen, followed by a tantalising glimpse of vulnerability at the end: understanding of his parents, himself, and the struggles of staying sober. It is a rewarding payoff and beautifully written, but it’s a shame that the mask holds us back from ever truly knowing Hill in his darkest days.
Matt Rowland Hill holds up his own mask for much of his memoir before allowing us to peak behind it at the end. Original Sins, Hill’s first book, tells the story of his upbringing as the son of an evangelical Baptist minister, his own fall from religious grace, his ‘descent’ into a masturbation habit, his somewhat elite education at a ‘Famous School’ (Harrow, one presumes), and his discovery of heroin at university (Oxford?). We follow him as he struggles with his addiction, loafing around in needle-strewn dens and stealing from those closest to him. We then witness his attempts to get clean in rehab centres and we finish with a final, somewhat spiritual realisation as Hill enrols in a 10-day silence and Vipassana meditation retreat.
The links between religion, masturbation and drugs are clear and seem natural throughout. Here he writes about masturbation when he was a teenager:
I even wondered if my efforts to resist temptation were causing me to succumb more often by keeping the sin in the centre of my mind.
This could quite easily have been written later in the book once Hill had become addicted to heroin. Ashamedly masturbating in a toilet later becomes shooting up in bathrooms, hoping no one hears or sees. These bits of foreshadowing make the memoir into a complete whole, bookended neatly by spirituality: beginning with the religion of his parents and finishing with the religion-adjacent retreat. It is a natural progression from one addiction to another. He is a man of extremes, not moderation. It’s not enough to believe in God, he desires to be a minister like his father; it’s not enough to masturbate occasionally, it must be any and every time the feeling takes him; it’s not enough to dip into drugs, he becomes an addict.
Somewhat later in the book, Hill writes that he was only ever completely honest with one person: his one-time partner Maria. This rings true, and unfortunately the reader is not Maria. Hill manages to avoid the ‘pity me’ memoir by sprinkling his dark, sometimes disgusting, stories of addiction with humour. I probably shouldn't have laughed at the first story of him shitting himself after shooting up, and much of the masturbation section is relatable enough to make me chuckle. But here is the problem: he gets far too wrapped up in his image of himself as what I would call ‘the Junkie Philosopher’.
The Junkie Philosopher is, essentially, an intellectual with a habit — think William S. Burroughs or Will Self. They seem to feel that their addictions, and therefore the worlds they inhabit, have given them some unique insight into the human condition, and this may be true to some extent. Hill while retelling his years of using, never lets go of this image of himself. He relates stories of his habit — stealing and borrowing money from shady characters, drug-dealers with burner phones, overdosing, death — in a distant and standoffish style; it's as if he is aestheticising his struggle rather than merely recounting it.
Hill writes vividly and with clarity, but I could have done without certain attempts at profundity which fall flat:
When you strip away the bullshit, life is pain management: nothing more, nothing less. And heroin is, by far, the most effective painkiller I’ve ever found.
I have no doubt that is how he feels about his own life but it’s hard to believe most people feel that life is just pain management. I’m inclined to agree with him again when he writes, later on: ‘Around other people I tried to impersonate someone who had the answer for all the important questions.’In many ways we do in fact see the real Hill when he holds up his mask, just not the ‘authentic’ Hill Maria sees.
This is not to say Hill is lying about anything — I think he is honest about what happened and the things he did — just that the Junkie Philosopher mask holds us back from ever learning about the deeper realities of the disease of addiction. He is a good storyteller; the book moves through at pace, in sparse prose which rarely lets up for extraneous description. His matter-of-fact style is refreshing. But it is not until the final hundred pages that this talent is combined with real insight into himself. Finally, perhaps humbled by his own tale, Hill abandons the Junkie Philosopher mask when it comes to his story of trying to get clean.
When the chapter ‘Forty Days’ begins, Hill is exhausted and has attempted to take his own life by overdose. He has stolen from Maria to fund his habit and has staged a burglary to justify it. He has lied to the only person he was always honest with. When the Junkie Philosopher is stripped away, we are left with just Matt and the memoir is all the better for it. He pushes against the rehab centre initially, but his mother comes back into his life and, far from the teenage-like interactions from earlier in the book, Hill reveals something of his relationship with her, real understanding. He realises she is another person in the world dealing with her own ‘pain management’: ‘I knew how to engage her in exasperating theological debate, but I had no idea how to deal with her kindness.’ Later, when he asks her why everything was so hard growing up, a topic never broached before this, she says she was simply tired, at the end of her tether, worried about money. Hill relates: ‘I know the feeling. I'm tired too.’
Hill relapses after a bit of heartbreak and tragically tries to overdose again, but the final part of the book follows his strongest attempt at getting clean yet. This story is told interwoven with his experience of the Vipassana retreat. I myself have been on the same retreat and Hill does a fine job explaining the true process without hysterics. Stories of these retreats are often told with exuberance, as if one were to have mystic visions and sudden Bodhi-tree moments of illumination. My own experience was far more mundane, but with no less a profound effect. We learn more about Hill and his insecurities and worries and fears in these last 100 pages than we do any of the preceding chapters. His insights into wanting to die are particularly moving.
Perhaps that's how Hill intended it; perhaps he wanted to show how he was, how he wore his mask, how he protected himself and hid behind the Junkie Philosopher persona as if to say, ‘this is how I was, mask and all, but after everything I managed to drop it’. If all he says is true, then it was a horrible, painful time; it probably hurt less behind the mask. The memoir is, perhaps, the weaker for it though. We see Hill as he wishes to be seen, followed by a tantalising glimpse of vulnerability at the end: understanding of his parents, himself, and the struggles of staying sober. It is a rewarding payoff and beautifully written, but it’s a shame that the mask holds us back from ever truly knowing Hill in his darkest days.