It should be more interesting than it is, for the stuff is there, but it lacks the charm of Malvina Hoffman's Heads and Tales, though that is its market. This is more a study of his work than of his life, and -- perhaps justifiably -- Epstain cannot help but reveal the grudge he bears the world for its reception of his work. The story is told against a slightly sketched in background of a boyhood on the Lower East Side, New York, of the instinct for drawing from childhood, of training in Paris, of the uphill climb to recognition and of the controversy that accompanied almost every major work. His work is serious --and so is his autobiography. The appendix is copious; the book is filled with notes, newspaper reports and letters.