This is a 'commonplace' book, a collection of comments and reflections, witty and incisive, from a writer who was a Literature academic of the old humanist school, profoundly sceptical of the postmodern craze, literary theory and so on. Enright died two weeks after completing the book. His references to his illness are as to a nuisance, as to yet another irritating facet of existence. A book to dip into, refreshing, and sad too for it marks the loss of a voice, and it marks, to me also, the loss of a way of seeing the world and being in it.