Allow me to bitch my way towards praising Isherwood's memoir: it grated that he told it in the third person with a few retrospective first person observations; too much of it was an undisciplined diary dump, too much again a dull exposé of who, and, tediously, to what degree, his characters were based on real people. That said, there are too many wonderful stories here of 1930s gay and literary life for this not to be an enthusiastic pick.