Emma Scrivener's autobiography of a life lived in the locked room of anorexia is a raw, searingly honest account, which I couldn't put down until I'd finished it.
Emma has an engaging writing style, pacey, she won't let you catch breath. In terms of her writing style, she reminds me of D.H. Lawrence, particularly The Rainbow. She loves clipped, terse sentences. She can catch an idea vividly in a few words. Writing about shame: 'It's a lowered gaze, a shuffle, an internal folding.'
In terms of form, this is very much at home with St. Augustine's Confessions - the tortuous story of a soul running away from its Creator, until finally turning around to embrace the Everlasting Arms. (Minus the long appendix about Genesis, of course.)
She also writes with great self-assurance (or at least appears to!). I loved her simple account of a phase of compulsive hand-washing, which she concludes with: 'Dad made a joke about Lady Macbeth, but no-one laughed.'
One might expect an autobiographical account of anorexia to be languid, navel-gazing, ponderous. On the contrary, there is hardly a whiff of self-pity here; instead, she speaks with a voice that is clear and gracious.
A short book with a great deal to recommend it.