Witty, tangential, self-deprecating, Amis’s autobiography is not a chronological procession of memories but a frenzy of footnotes, asides, literary zigzags through time and space. It’s funny, very funny, but it’s Amis’ attention to the unspoken and the unspeakable – his relationship with Kingsley, his children, and the murder of his cousin Lucy Partington – that makes this book such a rare, polished, delicately handled thing.
