I really like and admire Clive James... however.
I felt like reading something of his, so I pulled this from my bookshelf. The fact that it was there implies that I have read it before. I have no memory of this (not unusual these days), but on picking i up (again?) I am not sure why I read it - and kept it.
This book is full of allusions to literature and films that I have not read or seen, which hence meant nothing to me. Probably even if I had read/seen them I would not understand the significance. I tended to skip over those bits. That did not leave much. There was a kind-of love story - was it love, or lust? Either way it was unrequited (at least it was up to the point that I gave up).
The book is written in the first-person, so you might assume it is quite autobiographical, that James is describing the way he lives. However, he cuts off that interpretation by including Clive James as a character in the story. He is a minor character - and the depiction is not particularly flattering. Perhaps James is not a bit of a dirty old man?
Like I say, I like Clive James, so I would not want to put any potential readers off, but you might be more likely to appreciate it if you are more of a literary reader than I am.