However melodramatic its plot may be, Valley of the Dolls is simply old-fashioned riveting. It is perfect, and I'm not just saying that because I practically memorized it at the age of 13 and it was one of my primary illicit sources of sexual information in the gap between information and experience, and I therefore view it with fond nostalgia. I should say, first of all, that I have absolutely no criticisms to make of this book. Its three protagonists-Anne Welles, the uptight-but-full-of-a-strange-yearning New England beauty Neely O'Hara, the Judy Garland á clef and Jennifer North, who is sort of the Marilyn Monroe á clef and also sort of the Brigitte Bardot á clef but mainly sort of the least realized character in the book-all spend most of the novel with what they want excruciatingly just out of reach, and all are ultimately not only defeated but self-defeating.
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