The author's infatuation with herself is proclaimed not just in the title but on nearly every page of this self-congratulatory piece of tripe that posits itself as the definitive Liberation novel. Amo -- from (A)tlanta (M)unicipal (O)rphanage -- Coove is a diminutive but buxom novelist sent to earth from Maruvia to try to tune humans into the Maruvian Interconsciousness System -- in which people feel for each other as much as they do for themselves. Some chance! Amo tries to adapt to earthly standards, without much success. She communes home with (or via?) W.R. (Wrist Radar) who is alternately patient and irritated as Amo gets shafted by various earthly men -- the sadistic Malachi, Whit the boring shrink, and hundreds of others seemingly culled from old copies of Earl Wilson's columns: Mailer, Bobby Kennedy, Schlesinger. Despite the often wealthy consorts, she lives in a Manhattan D.O.D. (Dear Old Dump) waiting for the novel to sell -- she'll take money for nude modeling but not from the socialites who want to be seen with Meat's choicest morsel. Amo's curious combination of servitude and independence is neither convincing nor interesting nor illuminating -- and the ultimate success of the heroine's novel seems but a pathetic projection of the real author's pursuit of fame.