June 27, 2011
Forrest's memoir of suffering from mania, bulimia, and self-mutilation is written with such candor, humor, and lush, sensual prose it becomes, quite surprisingly, a rich, often riotous, pleasure to listen to. A British transplant to New York City at 22, on contract with the Guardian and completing her first novel, Forrest notices that her "quirks had gone beyond eccentricity" and she dissolves into self-loathing and self-destructive relationshipsâuntil she makes a fortuitous connection with her "savior," a psychiatrist, Dr. R. The unsparing, unsentimental narrative is beautifully served by Forrest's reading. Her voice is low, halting; she confides rather than narrates, and she switches easily from the confessional mode to rollicking sendups of her family members and friendsâher father's Sean Connery brogue, her grandmother who sounds like a Yiddish Prunella Scales, her squeaky baby sister, and every variety of New York accent. Less impressive, and more than slightly offensive, however are her depictions of minorities. Her crude "Chinese" and "Indian" accents are cringe inducing. An Other Press hardcover.