This is kind of a brave book. The direct desperation and lack of composure of the narrator combined with the omnipresent situating of events in specific locations in London reminds me of a very particular time in my life. In the way that good writing does it reminds me of the good and also the bad and shameful that I’ve pushed down as the mistakes of a younger, stupider person. I have never made the kinds of grandiosely bad decisions that are going on in this story, nor was I ever quite sobeholden to the parasocial spectator culture but I remember all of it. I remember the acid feelings it gives you in your stomach. I wouldn’t have remembered it without this book. It’s feral. It’s a great excavation of the sexual desperation, the directionlessness, the feeling of London.