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a child through excessive generosity and overindulgence, then Lena Dunham’s parents are child abusers.Her father, Carroll Dunham, is a painter noted for his primitive brand of highbrow pornography, his canvases anchored by puffy neon-pink labia; her photographer mother filled the family home with nude pictures of herself, “legs spread defiantly.” Self-styled radicals from old money, they were not the sort of people inclined to enforce even the most lax of boundaries.And they were, in their daughter’s telling, enablers of some very disturbing behavior that would be considered child abuse in many jurisdictions — Lena Dunham’s sexual abuse, specifically, of her younger sister, Grace, the sort of thing that gets children taken away from non-millionaire families without Andover pedigrees and Manhattanite social connections. anything a sexual predator might do to woo a small suburban girl I was trying.” At one point, when her sister is a toddler, Lena Dunham pries open her vagina — “my curiosity got the best of me,” she offers, as though that were an explanation.Dunham writes of casually masturbating while in bed next to her younger sister, of bribing her with “three pieces of candy if I could kiss her on the lips for five seconds . “This was within the spectrum of things I did.” Dunham describes herself as an “unreliable narrator,” which in the context of a memoir or another work of purported nonfiction means “liar,” strictly construed.

As for stroking her mother’s vagina, having mistaken it for her hairless cat . Experiencing some very common problems with the childhood fear of going to bed alone, young Lena invades her parents’ bedroom every morning at 1 a.m., evicting her father from the bed, “probably my way of making sure my parents didn’t ever have sex again.” Her father eventually reaches a strange and broken-down compromise with her: She goes to bed at 9 p.m., and he wakes every morning at 3 a.m. If her family failed her, Dunham’s schools, which she seems to have attended largely in pajamas, did no better, crippling her through coddling and leaving her a graduate of a writing program at a very prestigious college who does not know the use of the subjunctive or the difference between “nauseous” and “nauseated,” though the crudeness of her memoir’s prose, in contrast with the deft writing of her television series, may very well be yet another affectation.Lena Dunham never actually writes that she was raped by a mustachioed campus Republican named Barry at Oberlin College.She leads up to it with a long story about her childhood misuse of the word “rape” — she accuses her little sister of raping her and tells people that her father sticks a fork in her vagina when she misbehaves — and dwells on her lifelong fear of being raped.Early in , she devotes a fair amount of copy to her main hobby — shopping.That the shopping in question happens in thrift stores rather than at Bergdorf’s, and that she attempts to distill some sort of poetic meaning out of the ironic display of the detritus of the lives of others, serves only to underline the banality of her pursuits and the vanity with which she conducts them.She describes two different versions of the same sexual encounter, in the latter version insisting that she did not consent to what happened.