Imagine Woody Allen and the Marquis de Sade had a child, not a bastard, but one they fussed over and nurtured and sent to the best schools: he might have written this horrible, vicious, hilarious, totally true book, whose tasteless provocations upon motherhood, philosophy, art, and friendship are matched by a quixotic cruelty to cheeses. The translated prose is like the best martini: ice-cold, and crystal clear, with an instant head rush, and the subtlest whiff of foreignness in vermouth. Beware: it is a very stiff drink.