Bleakly accurate memoir-novel of the early 20s phase of adulthood, complete with total lack of purpose, morbid suicide fixations, actual suicides, fantasies of literary greatness (Moix eventually wins there), hero-worship of literary losers, Baudelairian passions for women who don't fancy you and alcohol poisoning. My God, Reims sounds like a dump. Compellingly dark, but, bloody hell it's miserable.
I totally agree, by the way: late adolescence and twenties have got to be the crappest, most meaningless limbo of ages. Thank fuck that's all over.