This appropriately titled autobiographical piece of exhibitionism finds Dali still intractably surreal but less shocking than in The Secret Life of Salvador Dali, although, to be sure, he is still fascinated by scatology. His comments on painters and on his own work are sketchy and epigrammatical. He knocks Matisse, Turner, Pollock and Luis Bunuel, praises Picasso greatly, and considers Velasquez the world's one giant modernist. Dali fancies himself as the savior of modern art from sloth and chaos, by means of his fantastically realistic technique, his moustache antennae which pick up mystical signals, and the totems with which he surrounds himself-- such as rhinoceros horns. He defends his meretricious behavior and publicity stunts as the only way in which he can keep enough gold on hand to be absolutely free to paint as he is impelled.... His writing is sometimes intellectually gelatinous, but always demonic and occasionally even inspired.