This book has been advertised as appealing to the large market of White followers, but it has very little of the quality of his other books. With the exception of a few anecdotes recounted in the opening chapters, there is very little material in it that is really autobiographical -- very little of the experiences the author must have had in order to write his books and which one would expect to find in this so-called autobiography. Rather is it a collection of haphazard observations on various unrelated subjects, from his disgust with women who leave their pocketbooks behind them to his criticism of moving pictures, with recollections on sundry in between. In his own words, it would be too much ""bother"" to attempt to recollect his ""small part in the solemn, swatting pageantry of historical significance"" , so he contents himself with jotting down a few of the frightfully unimportant things that come to mind. And the whole tone of it is pretty egotistical. Doubtful, even for the White market, if people really know what they're getting.