SOURCE: Barnacle, Hugo. “Poetic License.” New Statesman 132, no. 4656 (22 September 2003): 52-3.

In the following review, Barnacle asserts that, despite the novel's unique style, My Life as a Fake is ultimately unsatisfying and overly ambiguous.

“If I had only stayed in bed, I would not be where I am today, struggling in a web of mystery that I doubt I ever shall untangle.” This is Sarah Wode-Douglass, editor of a London poetry magazine, recalling a trip to Kuala Lumpur in 1972 [in My Life as a Fake]. She was talked into going by a raffish old writer called John Slater, a family friend. The reasons for the trip are unclear, but may have something to do with plot requirements.

Walking the streets, Sarah and Slater notice a shabby man reading Rilke while he minds a bicycle repair shop. Slater says “Christ” and moves Sarah on. The next day, when she possibly...