Autobiographical novel, written with a definite purpose in mind- the presentation of the steps by which an alcoholic is made-and the hope held out in better understanding of the problem and its sound approach to treatment and cure through right therapy. The author is himself an alcoholic who has been cured- and who has studied the subject through all the nuances of its neuroses and is-it seems -- fearful of missteps in the efforts of untrained laymen. This differs from September Remember in not touching on the topic of ""Alcoholics Anonymous"", except by implication. The man who calls himself William Wister received his initial steer in the right direction from Peabody -- and through Peabody began the self-training for proper therapy. Two thirds of the story trace in meticulous and intimate detail the downward path to hopeless alcoholism- a process that is of interest chiefly to other alcoholics -- or to people seriously interested in getting at the heart of this tragic problem. As a novel it is awkward- and dull. It has none of the morbid fascination of Lost Weekend. It certainly does not paint the alcoholic in attractive terms as does the play, Harvey. Sell it for what it is- a book about the psychology of alcoholism- not a novel. A confession story- if you like.