When Roger Caron went off to prison in 1954, he was 16, it was his first time away from home, and he was scared ""but grimly determined not to show it."" Caron seems equally determined not to show any emotion in writing about his last 24 years, most of which he has spent in Canadian jails where he currently awaits parole. Parts of this book are horrifying (the inhuman corporal punishment, rats coming out of the prison toilets), but Caron catalogues it all almost anecdotally. His story of causing a flood by plugging the toilet in his cell and refusing to unplug it until he gets more blankets--""gleefully I rolled up like a squirrel inside the blankets""--reads more like a reminiscence of life in the army than a prison memoir. There is also little evidence that Caron has thought about what keeps drawing him back to crime, even during periods when he admits to being ""very happy"" with a job and family. (""The feeling that there was something missing,"" he writes, ""kept attacking me like a bad case of rheumatism."") Only during his last bank robbery in 1972 is he ""plagued with powerful doubts"" when he notices his female hostages eyeing him ""as if I was a wild beast."" Active but empty.