This might better be called Prologue to Enjoyment of Living, for it takes Max Bastman through all the years of struggle towards maturity, and ends with the sloughing off of the pretense, the effort to make his marriage a success, and the facing forward to the chance to be himself, in 1917. And -- except in his tremendous lust for life and all it has to offer, in work, in love -- there is little of achieved enjoyment here, but rather successive disappointments, as his marriage from first to last proves disastrous to his fulfilment as a person. Not only is this personal autobiography- perhaps as and outspoken and self-analytical as any I have ever read- but it is also a fifteen year record of New York's left wingish liberals, intellectuals, artists, writers, and leaders of revolutionary thought. An iconoclastic book, which will produce a storm of discussion, argument, dissension. He names names- yes even down to his love affairs largely in the realm of fantasy to be sure- but none the less vivid. A tremendous tome, which will be avidly read by all who have been a part- or even on the fringe- of the world which was Eastman's.