An Eccentric’s Crazy Guide to Himself : ALTERED STATES: The Autobiography of Ken Russell, <i> by Ken Russell,</i> Bantam Books, $22.50; 352 pages

In a splendidly narcissistic introduction to this crazy autobiography, Twiggy--that cute, skinny actress from the ‘60s and ‘70s--stops talking about herself long enough to remember Ken Russell:

“I have wonderful memories of him: Picking us up from a hotel in the Lake District, the area of England where he still lives, we heard him before we saw him. From out of the lake rose the sound of a Mahler symphony. Eventually, from around the bend of a tiny country lane, appeared Ken, long gray hair blowing in the wind, driving a 1930s Rolls-Royce convertible, speakers blaring. We then understood the source of that wonderful music. He got out of the car to let us in--to the amazement of all around, wearing a long caftan. I mean people in the Lake District had never seen anything quite like it!”

Twiggy closes her introduction with these enigmatic words: “Whatever his critics may say about this wonderful eccentric human being, I think he’s great.”

Ken Russell, one of a kind. Some people may add a silent, heartfelt thank God . But as a person who has seen “The Boy Friend” more than a dozen times, I confess to another bias. The world is full of eccentrics, but few of them have been able to disseminate their views to such a wide audience, or with such a perverse sense of healing.

As you might expect, a Ken Russell autobiography is a lot like a Ken Russell movie. He throws good taste to the dogs. He puts chronological action into the metaphysical trash. He sacrifices all sense of character or characterization to his crazy love of coarse and goofy one-liners.

Living in Koombe Cottage with his beloved wife Viv, who’s been learning to cook out of a book on Middle Eastern cuisine, he reminisces nostalgically, “She called these efforts ‘experiments.’ I drew to dread the word even as a guinea pig dreads it. But whoever heard of a guinea pig complaining? Of course, (tonight) I might be lucky. Viv was nearly due to give birth and might have put her feet up for a change.” But no, Viv has made him falafel and is naive enough to ask him what he thinks of this dish. “Makes you feel awful ,” Ken replies. He just can’t help it. Viv walks out of the house in high dudgeon.

To tell the truth, it’s difficult to find a way to paraphrase or describe or evaluate this autobiography. Russell tells his story like a 4-year-old kid with an IQ of 250. He has wonderful observations--about Elton John, for instance, in “The Rainbow,” but Russell is just as eloquent about visiting his own crazy old mum in a pitiful nursing home.

The lines between Russell’s personal and professional life seem to have blurred altogether, to have faded to nothing. His life view, his artistic view, have become the same, and almost like an idiot savant, he will take one single detail, focus on it, until the rest of the “normal” world is driven absolutely batty with exasperation.

And yet this enfant terrible , this irresponsible nut case, has managed to be desperately prolific and madly original, with a list of films as long as both your arms. But he doesn’t concentrate on his accomplishments. He recalls in vivid detail his early reveries about Dorothy L’Amour’s genitalia. He remembers being almost strangled to death by schoolmates. Or having to pick up the check for every last freeloading Frenchman at the Cannes Film Festival.

If you’re on Ken Russell’s wavelength, you’ll absolutely love, love this book. If not, let it be. Spare yourself the aggravation.

Next: Bettyanne Kevles reviews “Uncertainty: The Life and Science of Werner Heisenberg” by David C. Cassidy (Freeman).