This autobiography reads like a well-written pulp fiction crime novel, and no wonder: the notorious "Raging Bull," Jake La Motta, was as much a crook as a boxer. Indeed, this terse little memoir has more robbery, larceny, rape, bribery, depravity and assault in it than any three detective novels set in the era in which the La Motta fought. Not since Errol Flynn's tell-all MY WICKED, WICKED WAYS have I read such an warts-and-all, honest-in-spirit confessional from a public figure. La Motta depicts himself as a brutalized boy growing up in a filthy Bronx slum (he vividly describes the stench of his tenement housing, abetted by the foul practice of boiling dirty diapers on the stove, as well as the dog-sized rats) in which the brutality of the Mob was balanced by the near-equal savagery of the NYPD. Learning how to box in reform school, he blazed a bloody trail on the boxing circuit and handed the legendary Sugar Ray Robinson his first-ever defeat, but was denied a title shot until he agreed to throw a fight so Mafia fatcats could get rich on crooked bets. And of course, when he finally won the middleweight title and attendant glory, he quickly cratered his marriage, career, finances and everything else so thoroughly that he ended up on a chain gang in Florida. The fact is that La Motta was so tormented by a robbery gone horribly wrong, in which he savagely beat a bookie to death with a lead pipe, that he "fought like he didn't deserve to live" and basically shit on everyone in his life -- his wives, his brother, his best friend -- every chance he got. The loathsome creature portrayed by De Niro in RAGING BULL is perhaps even uglier in his own words than he seems through Scorsese's lens: a jealous, self-hating, pathologically violent beast who didn't quite understand the difference between rape and sex and whose main virtue was a mule-like refusal to bend his knee to the Mafia. The salvation of this book lies in the fact that you cannot possibly despise La Motta more than he does; you cannot hold him up to greater scrutiny, ridicule and attack than he has. Flynn came to believe that he had wasted his life and talents in a mindless pursuit of pleasure, but exhibited very little if any remorse for the damage he'd done to others; La Motta makes it clear that he at least had the decency to truly hate himself. If you want a beautifully ugly depiction of poverty, the mob, and the tormented life of a pro fighter who could lick any opponent save himself, you cannot beat this book, whose only real weakness is an unrealistically phony happy ending.