The book, the first release from small-press publisher, Thieves Jargon, is the first full-length work from “experimental prose” writer Delphine LeCompte, who’s been publishing prolifically in a number of web-zines (including Thieves Jargon’s, unsurprisingly) since 2004. According to LeCompte, she was inspired to start writing after reading Henry Miller’s Tropic of Cancer. The influence shows, but her style is distinctive – eschewing capitalization, stringing run-on thoughts together with commas – and never, ever, engaging in any kind of self-censorship.

The book is not so much a novel as a series of short pieces (much like her earlier output) strung together sequentially; gradually, the reader gains, if not quite a sense of narrative, a sense of progression. A first impression may be that the book is merely a stream of filth and obscenity. LeCompte likely won’t be finding herself on any high school’s “Required Summer Reading” lists any time soon – but, in the end, that may be unfortunate, because although her lack of formal education shows, her intelligence is equally evident. Her writing succeeds, as few other books do, in giving a searingly clear and memorable view into another person’s perception of life.

It’s a unique, and often disturbing vision, because although intelligent, LeCompte also, well, has a lot of issues. And the person whose character she gives us insight into is all too obviously herself. As she has said in an official interview, the book is “an autobiography of sorts... I’ve tried very hard not to lie in my stories, of course I had to exaggerate... Actually I got carried away and made up quite a lot, but there’s absolutely no difference between me and the narrator of my stories.”

The parts that are made-up (and which parts those are, one can sometimes, but not always, guess) are just as revealing in their emotional content as those events which may be factual. The content of those stories involves quite a lot of prostitution and other loveless sex, violence, self-mutilation, and actions that are just plain crazy... mixed with moments of sweetness, humor, and a fairly incomprehensible love of Britpop. One begins to realize, though, that the writing is not ‘filth’ – it’s not even designed simply to shock. It really is just one person’s reality.

That reality did frequently make me, personally, want to scream at the page, “you don’t have to do that, you know!”, but it also made me understand, to a certain degree, why sometimes people don’t see their alternate options. Reading this book, I have to admit I found it hard to put down (although I also didn’t pick it up while eating – the subject matter just doesn’t go with lunch). This may have been partly the fascination of staring at a train wreck (or a gorily frozen animal), but I think, after reading LeCompte’s book, I also understand some people I’ve known in my life better than I ever did before. That’s more than one can say for most novels.