In 2003, James Frey burst into the literary scene with A Million Little Pieces, a searing memoir that was snapped up like a hot designer drug after it won the public adulation of Oprah Winfrey. But while Oprah gushed over it, allegations also arose that Frey fabricated some details of his so-called life as a 23-year-old hardcore drug addict. That his favourite confession, repeated eight times throughout the book—"I am an Alcoholic and I am a drug Addict and I am a Criminal"—should probably have included, “I am a sensationalist.” After investigations showed that some facts had indeed been manipulated or imagined, his publishing house issued an apology and a statement that forthcoming reprints will have notes from both the publisher and author. Not to mention Frey getting publicly castigated by the Queen of Daytime Talkshow for his sins. So much for non-fiction.

Yet if we were to forgive the lies and take the book as it is, we would agree that Frey can really write. Terse sentences meet thesaurus-like expositions; repetition follows minimalism. Here is a writer who tells it like it is (or how he wished it was) with a voice that’s fresh and free, without self-pity or an underlying need to impress. His stylistic nuances (absent punctuation, random capitalisation) take a while to get used to, but serve to reflect Frey’s blatant disregard for rules and authority.

His narrative alone is riveting. After being found with four front teeth missing, a hole in the cheek, a broken nose, eyes swollen shut, clothes covered in a cocktail of spit, snot, urine, vomit and blood—in other words, almost dead—he is brought to a rehab centre and told his body won’t survive another bout of abuse. Written in the desensitised tone of a man who has been pummelled to a pathetic heap by addiction, we are drawn into his hellhole, where chunks of stomach are regularly puked up, grown men piss in their pants, and alcohol, cocaine, pills, acid, mushrooms, meth, PCL, glue and crack dominate every second of consciousness and rest. As a read, it is addictive. As a story of recovery, it is fascinating.

Consistency, though, is amiss. The start of the book moves fluidly and absorbs you like a black hole while the later part, written after a lapse of four years, lacks the former’s edginess and steam. There is more mush, and Frey starts to wax philosophical in a sentimental spiel akin to Mitch Albom’s Tuesdays with Morrie.

In the end, does it really matter certain events didn’t take place? Perhaps, perhaps not. No one likes being scammed, but everyone loves a good story, especially one as explicit and gripping as this. Fact or fiction, A Million Little Pieces fits the bill nicely.