Well I don't really like memoirs, but I've read a number of them and this one is no different. Like many of the addiction memoirs written since the early 90s, it's written in the present tense, with nonlinear chapters switching between first and third person. The writing is clear and compelling enough but not particularly deep or critical. The title says it all: it's a portrait of an addict, not of an addict's recovery. It's a sort of depressing picaresque, reminding me of one of the problems that can come with episodic narrative: repetition without change or insight. The author doesn't get sober until the last few pages of the book, and I genuinely wonder about the 200 pages of drugalogue before that. Is it narratively necessary to see so many scenes of the author using? There's very little character development, ultimately, so I don't care at the end that the author is maybe getting clean for real this time. I guess I kept reading it because I'm still curious about people with unlimited wealth and privilege. Why am I still curious about this? I wish I wasn't. I blame capitalism.