I've noted before that when it comes to memoir, I either want writers to tell me a life story that is so unusual that I learn something new about how others live, or alternately, I want them to use their personal biographies in order to illustrate something universal about all of us; either give me some new knowledge or unveil something relatable. That's it. With Inside Story, Martin Amis doesn't satisfy my (admittedly personal, perhaps unfairly limited) brief regarding memoir, and despite his reminder throughout that this is actually a novel, it reads like a celebrity autobiography; and a frequently dull and self-indulgent one at that. I appreciate the space that Amis devotes to the passing of his closest friends, I like his reflections on the craft of writing, and I suppose it has value for “Martin Amis scholars”, but I cringed every time the narrative returned to Amis' relationships with women (and particularly so with “the alluringly amoral Phoebe Phelps”, as described in the publisher's blurb; what a creepy and exploitative relationship that seemed, and especially as dissected with Amis' pals), and as for the rest (Amis' thoughts on politics and religion and literature), not much is sticking with me a few days after finishing this. I can see how Inside Story might be more engaging for another reader, but it didn't really work for me.