On arrival in Buenos Aires, Brown’s relationship to narrative momentum, never secure to begin with, collapses completely. The city itself is well described, but nothing actually happens. The reader has time to notice My Biggest Lie‘s multiple flaws as a book. The banal, mannered cod-philosophy:’Knowing how to dress themselves is one of the reasons why women are indubitably, objectively, more attractive than men, whatever one’s sexual preference’. The clunking dialogue: ‘It is one of the most popular deviancy among young women: their attraction to old men’. The zero-dimensional characters: Brown’s women are interchangeable add-ons — even the ex who his narrator mourns is barely a cipher. The publicity material compares this stuff to Philip Roth. Surely Lord Leveson should set guidelines down about such comparisons. Put it this way: if Russell Brand ever gets round to writing a literary novel, it will be like My Biggest Lie. Brown makes taking drugs sound boring.
Max Dunbar reviews Luke Brown‘s My Biggest Lie.