The world knows 50 Cent as the hustler-turned-rapper who was shot nine times and survived, then left the drug game to make music with Dr. Dre and Eminem. But the real story of Curtis James Jackson III, as he explains in the prologue to his intense yet ultimately unsatisfying autobiography, “From Pieces to Weight: Once Upon a Time in Southside Queens,” is filled with more pain, guilt and hope than one episode—taking nine bullets in the legs, hand, shoulder, and face as he sat in a car outside of his grandmother’s house—can possibly capture.

The basic outline of his life has been well-publicized ever since 50 began his ascent of the charts: a poor kid from South Jamaica, Queens is introduced to drug dealing at a young age; he is arrested numerous times; he narrowly avoids death; he is discovered by Dre and Em; he sells millions of records and makes lots of money. So, what we expect 50 to do in “From Pieces to Weight” is to fill in the gaps, to provide the details that will help us understand how he became who he is. For the most part, though, these details are missing from his account, and what we have instead is a drug dealer’s manual of sorts but not a fully developed autobiography (which, given 50’s ripe age of 30, perhaps is to be expected).

50 begins his tale with the line, “I can remember when there was no such thing as crack.” Ironically, it seems that crack is the protagonist in the first three-quarters of the book. His childhood is a study in contradictions: he describes how his mother showered him with gifts but couldn’t care for him because she was on the strip selling drugs; how his aunts and uncles were always home but always high; and how he learned about fractions and metric conversions, not in school but on the job. (In the title of the book, “pieces” refers to small quantities of crack measured in ounces while “weight” refers to a full kilo.)

Fifty really does have a fascinating rags-to-riches story to tell here, and he describes his time in different drug rehabilitation programs with great honesty and humor. Nevertheless, this book is not as rich as The Autobiography of Malcolm X or Makes Me Wanna Holler, two important works by black men who, like 50, learned that it’s not possible to serve your purpose in life when you are stuck behind bars. 50 is filled with the same rage and distrust of authority as were Malcolm X and Nathan McCall. But he is hesitant to write what he feels, which hinders his ability to feel what he writes. (Interestingly, this is not the case with his lyrics.)

There are several memorable moments in the book, including an adrenaline rush of a scene in which 50 weaves in and out of traffic on his motorcycle in an attempt to elude police. (It’s no wonder that Hollywood bought the rights to his story and will release a film in November, with 50 Cent in the lead role, called—what else?—“Get Rich or Die Tryin’.”) And 50’s reflections about the meaning of death in the opening and closing pages of the book reveal an intelligence that is often undetectable in his lyrics, which are filled predominately with boasts, threats and profanity.

Hip hop enters 50’s life early on. When his aunts and uncles threw parties at 50’s grandmother’s house, he would watch from his window and marvel at how the beat took control of his relatives as they danced. He recalls how listening to the Notorious B.I.G.’s classic album “Ready to Die” while pushing crack had a calming effect: “When I was hustling, I would listen to that tape and it would be like Big was sitting right next to me on the bench, kicking what had happened the night before. I could listen to him without losing track of where I was.”

Real hip hop heads will enjoy reading about 50’s growth as an artist under the tutelage of the late, great Jam Master Jay of Run-DMC and how the beef got started between 50 and Ja Rule (it involves fists and knives). But important details about 50’s rap career are missing from the book. For example, he briefly mentions Tony Yayo, Lloyd Banks, and Young Buck—members of his G-Unit crew (two of whom were arrested earlier this week on gun charges)—but he does not discuss the dynamics within the group.

Furthermore, 50 fails to provide any insight into what it’s like to work in the studio with Dr. Dre and Eminem (besides noting, as has been noted by every artist who has worked with him, that Dr. Dre is a perfectionist), and that proves to be the book’s greatest disappointment. Also, for anyone who has bought a 50 Cent album, all of which feature—dare I say—beautiful photo spreads depicting 50 and his cohorts in a number of staged yet shocking acts like drive-by shootings, the lack of color pictures in this book is a let down.

Maybe the publisher, MTV Books, recognized that 50’s ubiquity made photographs unnecessary. Aside from making music, 50 manages a record label; has his own clothing, shoe, and watch lines; sells “Formula 50” vitamin water; and appears in his own video game. 50 is everywhere, and his omnipresence detracts somewhat from the appeal of “From Pieces to Weight” because fans feel like they know him already.

And they are right. It is not essential to read this book in order to understand his philosophy on life and rapping because he explains it best in songs like “How We Do”: “They call me new money, say I have no class/ I’m from the bottom, I came up too fast/ The hell if I care I’m just here to get my cash/ Bougie-ass bitches, you can kiss my ass.”

—Staff writer Andrew C. Esensten can be reached at esenst@fas.harvard.edu.