Daisy Clover begins writing her thoughts down in a lined theme book before her 14th birthday. She's a vulgar, lucid Lolita who escapes the dinginess of a California trailer camp by listening to sea sounds, recording Cole Porter tunes in a leazy penny arcade, and inquiring after the candy supply of errant sexual perverts. One of her discs cops a major talent contest and in less than a year she becomes the country's wide-screen teen-queen. But nothing changes for Daisy. Despite phenomenal success, abortive love, a major reversal in her fortunes, and the commitment of her solitaire-playing catatonic mama, she is still utterly unable to ""connect""; she's a soul interred by her own innocence. The lesson Daisy learns -- that the over-sane had better get with the schizoid tenor of our times -- has characterized some of the finest novels of this season. No exception, Daisy Clover. Lambert's exploration of the inning celluloid pimp and the sinned against Hollywood whores is crackling wry, devastatingly knowledgeable, and quite unforgettable. A stunning satiric achievement; it couldn't happen to a nicer colony.