This is not a happy book. The word glum comes to mind. Not despondent (except very occasionally) but unhappy in a stagnant drudging-through-it kind of way. From his mostly lonely childhood, to his coming of age and WWII experiences, I did not find it a particularly interesting autobiography. It’s not bad, Mowat is a good enough writer. It’s just not particularly interesting. It took me half way through to understand that the title refers to his understanding of the other creatures than humans (which he calls the “Others”) not that it meant “otherwise than what I am discussing, everything was Ok.” Like I said, this is not a happy book about a happy life. Although I respect Mowat’s reverence for nature and have enjoyed some of his later works, I can not recommend this book.