Product Description
Elizabeth Wurtzel published her memoir of depression, Prozac Nation, to astonishing literary acclaim. A cultural phenomenon by age twenty-six, she had fame, money, respecteverything she had always wanted except that one, true thing: happiness.

For all of her professional success, Wurtzel felt like a failure. She had lost friends and lovers, every magazine job she'd held, and way too much weight. She couldn't write, and her second book was past due. But when her doctor prescribed Ritalin to help her focus-and boost the effects of her antidepressants -- Wurtzel was spared. The Ritalin worked. And worked. The pills became her sugar...the sweetness in the days that have none. Soon she began grinding up the Ritalin and snorting it. Then came the cocaine, then more Ritalin, then more cocaine. Then I need more. I always need more. For all of my life I have needed more...

More, Now, Again is the brutally honest, often painful account of Wurtzel's descent into drug addiction. It is also a love story: How Wurtzel managed to break free of her relationship with Ritalin and learned to love life, and herself, is at the heart of this ultimately uplifting memoir that no reader will soon forget.

CUSTOMER REVIEWS (Average Customer Rating: 3.5 based on 51 reviews)

Please just stop

I had no idea anyone could be this self involved...how many books about herself are we all going to get? 12? 20? Reading this was truly an ordeal; I should have known better. People who actually do something other than stare at their reflection and sigh deserve memoirs and biographies...she is just wasting perfectly good paper.

She was published initially because there was sex! and drugs!...etc... and she looked pretty in the photo shoots - I guess we just need for her to wrinkle up and then we'll be spared yet more of this inane self pitying dross.
September 23, 2008

Autobiographical drug recovery

This book was okay. The author describes her descent into cocaine abuse and her subsequent recovery. She comes off as whiney and bitchy at times. Also, she makes you question her dedication to her work as she describes her excessive drugging during the creation of her books (designed to empower).
February 08, 2008

"Ritalin and Cocaine Nation"

"More, Now, Again" is a sequel of sorts to Wurtzel's generation-defining "Prozac Nation." After receiving a six-figure advance for her second book of non-fiction, Wurtzel became addicted to Ritalin and cocaine. This memoir, like her first book, is honest, moving, and funny. If you want a realistic yet entertaining take on addiction (as opposed to, say, James Frey's "Million Little Pieces"), chances are that you'll enjoy this book.

Wurtzel is a divisive literary figure who appeared topless on the cover of her second book, and such publicity stunts have turned a lot of readers off. Her behavior in "More, Now, Again," including sleeping with a married man and having an abortion, turned even more readers off. It's a shame, too, because this book is as unconventional and entertaining as Wurtzel is as a literary celebrity.
January 14, 2008

a must-read for the recovering addict

From the first time I read the back cover of this book, I was hooked. Wurtzel's description of Ritalin as "sugar...the sweetness in the days that have none" mirrored ver batim my own experience with the drug. As a recovering addict, it was impossible not to be moved by Wurtzel's brutally honest and totally real account of her experience with the true nature of addiction - both the pain and the redemption. Yet I wouldn't be altogether surprised if to the average reader Wurtzel is seen as a self-absorbed, attention-seeking brat. For this reason I don't recommend this book to someone with no knowledge of or experience with addiction, not because the book isn't excellent but for that very reason. What makes this book great is Wurtzel's ability to verbalize the seemingly irrelavant details of what it is to be addicted. More, Now Again is not a pleasant read, and to the average person Wurtzel may seem anything but a heroine. But what may seem a depressing, drawn-out whine-fest to some is sure to grab the gut of the recovering addict. Wurtzel puts into words what we all feel, and will tell you truths about yourself that even you were not aware existed. You will laugh with her, cry with her, and ultimately cheer her - and yourself - on as she finds what all addicts so desperately long for - hope.
October 22, 2007

This book should kill itself .

Elizabeth Wurtzel is desperate, all right -- desperate for attention, desperate for a decent editor, and obviously desperate for new material. This 333-page book is at least 250 pages too long, replete with filler in the form of selfish, shallow rants. It should be in Roget's under "delusions of grandeur" or the explanation of "Histrionic Personality Disorder" in the DSM-IV. While the chance of an unknown writer getting published today is less than zero, Doubleday curiously publishes a one-hit wonder who doesn't have anything else to say.

Nowhere in these 333 pages did I see empathy, or even sympathy for the 15 million other Americans suffering from major depressive disorders, half of whom express a desire to die, the majority victims of trauma or abuse beyond a bad hair day. Here's a shocker: more folks than just Elizabeth Wurtzel are walking around drugged, dazed and depressed in this country, and few can afford the therapeutic resources she has.

Every reader knows errors, annoyances and questionable writing here and there are a given. But a few hundred pages of of them, written by someone who declares herself the best non-fiction writer (page 146) and smarter than anyone else on the planet simply adds up to insufferable. An example from my mountain of annoyances, in addition to the incessant name-dropping of oh-so-cool authors, CDs, books and films pretty much all of us know and bistros only people on the tiny island of Manhattan give a rip about, is the misuse of italicized monologue. The whole thing is a monotonous monologue. Looks to me like an attempt at using this literary device to mask unremitting redundancy. Seriously, how can someone summon Harvard pseudo-superiority when she turns out sophomoric stuff like this? Everyone sick of East Coast literary incest and self-aggrandizement raise your hand. We're laughing here in Big Ten country--home of Wurtzel's beloved Prozac.

For God's sake, Elizabeth, step outside yourself for once and do some volunteer work or something. Seriously consider a career move far from writing, perhaps cashier at Bloomingdale's or Starbucks barista. Listen to the Waitresses' "No Guilt" a billion times. If you can't survive in New York, and clearly you cannot, move to LA, move to Montana. Pick a Dakota and just go. Whatever. Anything to put an end to both your torture and ours.
October 12, 2007

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