I always thought I needed to have some respect for the people I was reading about, even if it was a grudging respect, in order to enjoy a book. This book has turned that notion on its head. Everyone involved is awful and they all get worse as the book goes on, but that turns out to be irrelevant.

This book is absolutely jam packed with things to think about, from art criticism to philosophy to politics, to classism and sexism, to healthy and unhealthy relationships, to personal agency vs the weight of cultural expectation, to the nature of obsession, to pretentious modes of speech and writing to incessant namedropping and What They All Mean. I mean I could go on and on.

If the whole book were true (in the sense of a set of Actual NonFiction Facts, rather than aiming at an Observed Trueness about the world)--well, that's obviously debatable. If it's non-fiction, it's awfully sad.The Chris Kraus in I Love Dick wants a life of genuine experience, but also wants to put her experience at a remove and run it through a set of analytics. What we have as a result is an amazing book, perhaps at a huge personal cost to Ms Kraus, who still can't seem to squeeze any genuineness out of her contrived situation, surprise surprise. But it's art! It's definitely art.