Judith Moore’s Fat Girl: A True Story is a first-rate example of monumental self-pity at its most riveting. The book is a rare delight. The main gist of the story, the only gist in fact, is that Judith is fat. She was a fat little girl, a fat teenager and (although the cover photograph shows an intelligent, slim face) she tells us she is a fat adult:

I am a short, squat toad of a woman. My curly auburn hair is fading. Curls form a clown’s ruff about my round face. My shoulders are wide. My upper arms are as big as those maroon-skinned bolognas that hang from butchers’ ceilings. My belly juts out... I hate myself. I have always hated myself.
Life has never been a bundle of fun for Ms Moore. Growing up in a tiny apartment in New York, she was beaten by her mother who threatened to starve off her fat. Her father ran away when she was four. One-sided conversations with school chums consisted of ‘Oink oink’, ‘Hey fatso’ and ‘Pig!’ The only man ever to have taken an interest in her was a horrible pervert who performed an unmentionable act in a darkened cinema.

Blackwell Bookshop

Purchase your copy here, 10% off RRP