This autobiography's appeal lies chiefly in the intimate pictures Ford gives of the great literary figures of his day -- Galsworthy, Bennett, Sinclair Lewis, James Joyce, Proust, and so on and so on. There is no attempt to tell a connected life story, no intention of doing other than dipping, more or less at random, into the rich storehouse of his memory. Not a book for anyone not vitally interested in literature and literary people.