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Confessions: A Life of Failed Promises
Known for his journalism, biographies and novels, A. N. Wilson turns a merciless searchlight on his own early life, his experience of sexual abuse, his catastrophic mistakes in love (sacred and profane) and his life in Grub Street – as a prolific writer.
Before he came to London, as one of the “Best of Young British” novelists, and Literary Editor of the Spectator , we meet another A. N. Wilson. We meet his father, the Managing Director of Wedgwood, the grotesque teachers at his first boarding school, and the dons of Oxford – one of whom, at the age of just 20, he married, Katherine Duncan-Jones, the renowned Shakespearean scholar.
The book begins with his heart-torn present-day visits to Katherine, now for decades his ex-wife, who has slithered into the torments of dementia.
At every turn of this reminiscence, Wilson is baffled by his earlier self – whether he is flirting with unsuitable lovers or with the idea of the priesthood. His chapter on the High Camp seminary which he attended in Oxford is among the funniest in the book.
We follow his unsuccessful attempts to become an academic, his aspirations to be a Man of Letters, and his eventual encounters with the famous, including some memorable meetings with royalty.
The princesses, dons, paedophiles and journos who cross the pages are as sharply drawn as figures in Wilson's early comic fiction. But there is also a tenderness here, in his evocation of those whom he has loved, and hurt, the most.
Before he came to London, as one of the “Best of Young British” novelists, and Literary Editor of the Spectator , we meet another A. N. Wilson. We meet his father, the Managing Director of Wedgwood, the grotesque teachers at his first boarding school, and the dons of Oxford – one of whom, at the age of just 20, he married, Katherine Duncan-Jones, the renowned Shakespearean scholar.
The book begins with his heart-torn present-day visits to Katherine, now for decades his ex-wife, who has slithered into the torments of dementia.
At every turn of this reminiscence, Wilson is baffled by his earlier self – whether he is flirting with unsuitable lovers or with the idea of the priesthood. His chapter on the High Camp seminary which he attended in Oxford is among the funniest in the book.
We follow his unsuccessful attempts to become an academic, his aspirations to be a Man of Letters, and his eventual encounters with the famous, including some memorable meetings with royalty.
The princesses, dons, paedophiles and journos who cross the pages are as sharply drawn as figures in Wilson's early comic fiction. But there is also a tenderness here, in his evocation of those whom he has loved, and hurt, the most.
320 pages, Hardcover
Published November 1, 2022
20 people are currently reading
127 people want to read
About the author
A.N. Wilson
118 books244 followersAndrew Norman Wilson is an English writer and newspaper columnist, known for his critical biographies, novels, works of popular history and religious views. He is an occasional columnist for the Daily Mail and former columnist for the London Evening Standard, and has been an occasional contributor to the Times Literary Supplement, New Statesman, The Spectator and The Observer.
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Displaying 1 - 21 of 21 reviews
September 8, 2023
A N Wilson writes with no self-awareness whatsoever in this book (apart from one moving section on paedophiles in public schools). Though the title suggests confessional honesty and self-scrutiny, this is a piece of crafted Mannerism.
Wilson demonstrates a great ability, in this rambling book, to accuse others of faults he cannot see in himself. He alleges misogyny against others, but this comes from a man who is besotted by female prettiness. Christopher Tolkien was camp, so writes the man who ogles very beautiful boys in their eau-de-Nil cricket sweaters. Maitland is nothing more than a self-interested publicist with a voice like a corncrake. This from an author who drops names like cluster bombs, until the common reader has a headache, and is forever promoting his own novels. The Potter's Hand is his best, nudge nudge, wink, wink, know what I mean, should anyone care to dig it up on Amazon. One of Wilson's sulphuric jibes involves Lord Longford who displayed vanity when his "eminent book" (Lord Longford) on humility was not in a certain bookshop. But vanity is the main theme of this book. It is filled with prinking and preening, self-obsession and vainglory. And one might add, lust, gluttony,envy and pride. For the record, one must also note that A N wilson has lots of friends, undoubtedly far more than those poor sods who (in his view) speak with the greatest sin -- an accent. All I can say is with a friend like ANOther (another false self-effacing joke by the great man) a person would not need enemies. Before Christopher Tolkien's death, Wilson was writing in "The Daily Mail" how brilliant CT was and how much he valued him. Now that CT is dead and not able to press for libel, Wilson describes him as dull, lazy, and a sycophant hanging on JRR's coat-tails.
There are books that are so bad that they are good, worth reading for all the wrong reasons. This is one of them. It belongs on a high shelf alongside Fry's Mythos and Rees-Mogg's The Victorians. The best way to read this book is to forget it is fact (or one man's prejudices) and read it as the outpourings of an egotist created by the feather of Rabelais or Swift or Voltaire.
Wilson demonstrates a great ability, in this rambling book, to accuse others of faults he cannot see in himself. He alleges misogyny against others, but this comes from a man who is besotted by female prettiness. Christopher Tolkien was camp, so writes the man who ogles very beautiful boys in their eau-de-Nil cricket sweaters. Maitland is nothing more than a self-interested publicist with a voice like a corncrake. This from an author who drops names like cluster bombs, until the common reader has a headache, and is forever promoting his own novels. The Potter's Hand is his best, nudge nudge, wink, wink, know what I mean, should anyone care to dig it up on Amazon. One of Wilson's sulphuric jibes involves Lord Longford who displayed vanity when his "eminent book" (Lord Longford) on humility was not in a certain bookshop. But vanity is the main theme of this book. It is filled with prinking and preening, self-obsession and vainglory. And one might add, lust, gluttony,envy and pride. For the record, one must also note that A N wilson has lots of friends, undoubtedly far more than those poor sods who (in his view) speak with the greatest sin -- an accent. All I can say is with a friend like ANOther (another false self-effacing joke by the great man) a person would not need enemies. Before Christopher Tolkien's death, Wilson was writing in "The Daily Mail" how brilliant CT was and how much he valued him. Now that CT is dead and not able to press for libel, Wilson describes him as dull, lazy, and a sycophant hanging on JRR's coat-tails.
There are books that are so bad that they are good, worth reading for all the wrong reasons. This is one of them. It belongs on a high shelf alongside Fry's Mythos and Rees-Mogg's The Victorians. The best way to read this book is to forget it is fact (or one man's prejudices) and read it as the outpourings of an egotist created by the feather of Rabelais or Swift or Voltaire.
October 3, 2022
I found Confessions a real mixed bag of a book. A.N. Wilson writes extremely well, of course, and there are some nuggets of insight and description, but there is also a lot that I found frankly boring.
The opening of the book, describing Wilson’s first wife’s advancing dementia is gripping, moving and piercingly well described. However, after this short passage, there is a very lengthy section indeed about his grandfather and father, and their intimate connection to the Wedgwood factory and family. Even though this is about places very familiar to me from my infancy, I found it far too long and eventually very dull. Things pick up rather when Andrew goes to school; his descriptions of the schools he attended, his intellectual awakening and some of the abuses there are all fascinating (and sometimes quite horrifying), but again there are considerable longueurs, too. I found this throughout the book.
Wilson is in some ways frank about his own sometimes extremely bad behaviour, especially in relationships, but only to a very limited extent. There are a number of references to his marriage “unravelling,” but no real acknowledgement of his own contributions to it. It reminded me of the self-exculpatory passive used by Lorelei in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes where, having shot someone, she refers to him having “become shot”. It all felt rather evasive and almost dishonest to me.
There are some good portraits of friends and acquaintances, but also rather a lot of uninteresting stuff. The same is true of Wilson’s experience as a university lecturer at Oxford and then as a journalist. The name-dropping is of a truly world-class standard, although I suppose those were the circles he moved in. When talking about his own intellectual activity and relationship with religion he can be fascinating and manages to stay this side of pretension most of the time – but I did mutter “Oh, for heaven’s sake” (I paraphrase) when told “I still read the New Testament in Greek every year,” for example.
I reached the end of the book (with some judicious skimming) sooner than expected because I hadn’t realised that the last 10% was index – and felt rather relieved. I had the sense of having waded through more mud than I’d have liked in order to retrieve a few gems. I can only give Confessions a very qualified recommendation.
(My thanks to Bloomsbury for an ARC via NetGalley.)
The opening of the book, describing Wilson’s first wife’s advancing dementia is gripping, moving and piercingly well described. However, after this short passage, there is a very lengthy section indeed about his grandfather and father, and their intimate connection to the Wedgwood factory and family. Even though this is about places very familiar to me from my infancy, I found it far too long and eventually very dull. Things pick up rather when Andrew goes to school; his descriptions of the schools he attended, his intellectual awakening and some of the abuses there are all fascinating (and sometimes quite horrifying), but again there are considerable longueurs, too. I found this throughout the book.
Wilson is in some ways frank about his own sometimes extremely bad behaviour, especially in relationships, but only to a very limited extent. There are a number of references to his marriage “unravelling,” but no real acknowledgement of his own contributions to it. It reminded me of the self-exculpatory passive used by Lorelei in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes where, having shot someone, she refers to him having “become shot”. It all felt rather evasive and almost dishonest to me.
There are some good portraits of friends and acquaintances, but also rather a lot of uninteresting stuff. The same is true of Wilson’s experience as a university lecturer at Oxford and then as a journalist. The name-dropping is of a truly world-class standard, although I suppose those were the circles he moved in. When talking about his own intellectual activity and relationship with religion he can be fascinating and manages to stay this side of pretension most of the time – but I did mutter “Oh, for heaven’s sake” (I paraphrase) when told “I still read the New Testament in Greek every year,” for example.
I reached the end of the book (with some judicious skimming) sooner than expected because I hadn’t realised that the last 10% was index – and felt rather relieved. I had the sense of having waded through more mud than I’d have liked in order to retrieve a few gems. I can only give Confessions a very qualified recommendation.
(My thanks to Bloomsbury for an ARC via NetGalley.)
March 2, 2023
A.N. Wilson hasn’t read everything — although it may sometimes seem that way. But he certainly belongs among the cadre of impossibly erudite and prolific British writers who have mastered every genre from lowbrow journalism and highbrow criticism to novels and nonfiction.
Prolific may be something of an understatement: Wilson estimates he has published more than fifty books, plus “millions of words in the newspapers.” To the charge of being perhaps too fluent, Wilson pleads guilty, while acknowledging that his problem has never been writer’s block, but “trying to match the words to the truth of experience.” Which more or less sums up the job description of any aspirational literary writer.
Now Wilson has turned his hand to a memoir covering roughly the first half of his life, from family origins to a mid-career Tolstoy biography — and, of course, mastering Russian in the process. All the Wilson virtues are here: wit and acute observation, scholarship, and brilliantly etched portraits of individuals, from troubled parents and baleful schoolmasters to wonderfully odd Oxford dons and literary compatriots. (The profile of Christopher Tolkien, son of the Lord of the Rings author, is remarkable for both its acuity and sympathy.)
Wilson himself is something of an odd duck, as he is the first to acknowledge, although I would contend that his subtitle, “A Life of Failed Promises,” is just flat-out wrong. Wilson has had his sharing of crushing disappointments in life — including a young and failed first marriage to an older Oxford academic — but his academic and literary career moved in a steadily upward arc. His journalism may have often constituted ephemera, for example, but Wilson cheerfully admits that he has remained addicted to its pleasures, while still finding ample time to read and write more enduring books.
In part, Wilson’s subtitle may allude to his spiritual quests, which were both intense and often contradictory. He was raised as a conventional Anglican (devout mother, atheist father), converted to Catholicism, but eventually returned to the good old Church of England, despite periodic outbreaks of “Roman Catholic fever.” Yet he acknowledges dismissing much of the church’s dogma, and at one point seems to describe himself as agnostic. Wilson’s smooth narrative facility falters at these points, which I actually found moving, and evidence of the genuineness of his deep spiritual struggles.
Wilson examines his parent’s mismatched marriage in minute detail: the bluff chain-smoking, cursing father who was a managing director of the celebrated Wedgewood pottery company; and his pious agoraphobic mother who could neither abide his manners nor find a way to leave him. Still, Wilson had a relatively idyllic childhood until he enrolled in a hellish boarding school notorious for corporal punishment and sexual abuse. (Is there any more grotesque British invention than the boarding school for young boys of seven or eight?)
Wilson might have ended up as an obscure Oxfordian academic, specializing in Old Norse or medieval Latin, if not for the enticements of popular writing and the eventual offer of a job as literary editor of The Spectator magazine. At this point, the book shifts into a welcome higher gear of anecdotes and gossip about the always lively and often incestuous world of literary Britain, where bright young writers soar with critical praise, yet too often crash into sodden alcoholic lumps. It does make for highly entertaining reading, however.
By the end, Wilson has caught the fever of Russia and Tolstoy and launched his ambitious biography. It may, in some respects, be his most ambitious; but it is only one of many books on figures from Dickens and the Victorians to Jesus and Hitler. Wilson is apparently inexhaustible as a writer. Close this book and remember: more to come. Much more.
Prolific may be something of an understatement: Wilson estimates he has published more than fifty books, plus “millions of words in the newspapers.” To the charge of being perhaps too fluent, Wilson pleads guilty, while acknowledging that his problem has never been writer’s block, but “trying to match the words to the truth of experience.” Which more or less sums up the job description of any aspirational literary writer.
Now Wilson has turned his hand to a memoir covering roughly the first half of his life, from family origins to a mid-career Tolstoy biography — and, of course, mastering Russian in the process. All the Wilson virtues are here: wit and acute observation, scholarship, and brilliantly etched portraits of individuals, from troubled parents and baleful schoolmasters to wonderfully odd Oxford dons and literary compatriots. (The profile of Christopher Tolkien, son of the Lord of the Rings author, is remarkable for both its acuity and sympathy.)
Wilson himself is something of an odd duck, as he is the first to acknowledge, although I would contend that his subtitle, “A Life of Failed Promises,” is just flat-out wrong. Wilson has had his sharing of crushing disappointments in life — including a young and failed first marriage to an older Oxford academic — but his academic and literary career moved in a steadily upward arc. His journalism may have often constituted ephemera, for example, but Wilson cheerfully admits that he has remained addicted to its pleasures, while still finding ample time to read and write more enduring books.
In part, Wilson’s subtitle may allude to his spiritual quests, which were both intense and often contradictory. He was raised as a conventional Anglican (devout mother, atheist father), converted to Catholicism, but eventually returned to the good old Church of England, despite periodic outbreaks of “Roman Catholic fever.” Yet he acknowledges dismissing much of the church’s dogma, and at one point seems to describe himself as agnostic. Wilson’s smooth narrative facility falters at these points, which I actually found moving, and evidence of the genuineness of his deep spiritual struggles.
Wilson examines his parent’s mismatched marriage in minute detail: the bluff chain-smoking, cursing father who was a managing director of the celebrated Wedgewood pottery company; and his pious agoraphobic mother who could neither abide his manners nor find a way to leave him. Still, Wilson had a relatively idyllic childhood until he enrolled in a hellish boarding school notorious for corporal punishment and sexual abuse. (Is there any more grotesque British invention than the boarding school for young boys of seven or eight?)
Wilson might have ended up as an obscure Oxfordian academic, specializing in Old Norse or medieval Latin, if not for the enticements of popular writing and the eventual offer of a job as literary editor of The Spectator magazine. At this point, the book shifts into a welcome higher gear of anecdotes and gossip about the always lively and often incestuous world of literary Britain, where bright young writers soar with critical praise, yet too often crash into sodden alcoholic lumps. It does make for highly entertaining reading, however.
By the end, Wilson has caught the fever of Russia and Tolstoy and launched his ambitious biography. It may, in some respects, be his most ambitious; but it is only one of many books on figures from Dickens and the Victorians to Jesus and Hitler. Wilson is apparently inexhaustible as a writer. Close this book and remember: more to come. Much more.
July 9, 2024
Whenever you are handed a book with a note that says "I hope you enjoy it as much as I did", I always feel a certain amount of pressure. If I don't like it there are only really two choices, either something is wrong with me, or more sadly, what on earth was my friend thinking?! Thankfully, it was the later this time.
The book starts very well with Wilson writing very movingly about his wife and her illness, soon though I found myself thinking do we really need another Oxbridge memoir. The chapters on chiuld abuse are very well written but for the most part this is incredibly boring and a bit of name dropping exercise. I have not read any of his books but I'm guessing that wit doesn't play a huge part.
Sadly, I turned away after 184 pages.
All I can say is that I look forward to handing this book back and asking "What on earth were you thinking?"
The book starts very well with Wilson writing very movingly about his wife and her illness, soon though I found myself thinking do we really need another Oxbridge memoir. The chapters on chiuld abuse are very well written but for the most part this is incredibly boring and a bit of name dropping exercise. I have not read any of his books but I'm guessing that wit doesn't play a huge part.
Sadly, I turned away after 184 pages.
All I can say is that I look forward to handing this book back and asking "What on earth were you thinking?"
October 31, 2023
The namedropping gets a little much at times, but I think it reflects the realities of his life and connections, really. I was particularly moved by his account of his parents’ ill-matched, difficult marriage, of his experience of abuse and misery at public school, and of his own difficult first marriage. He sees moral complexity where others might be tempted to condemn without nuance, and he is able to see the complexity of motivations and pain that lie behind people’s worst behaviour.
December 2, 2023
Wilson writes very well and the section on his sexual abuse at school is harrowing and moving. Much of the rest though did little for me and large sections were long and dull. He knows how to drop a name, that's for sure.
Genuine (ridiculous) example:
"In one of those twists which make life aspire to the condition of a novel
by Anthony Powell, Tanya would eventually become the sister-in-
law of Christina Hobhouse, who had befriended Aunt Elizabeth
at the mobile library in Llansteffan and who attended the recusant
mass in Dai Thomas's tin hut. Tanya would marry Henry Harrod,
a barrister in chambers with my old friend Mark Blackett-Ord.
Henry's brother, Christina's husband, was the economist Dominick
Harrod. They were related to Sir Johnston Forbes-Robertson, and
when I see that legendary actor's portrait hanging in Henry and
Tanyas house, I think of my aunt, in the Theatre Royal, Hanley,
revelling in his interpretations of Cassius, Shylock and Hamlet. "
If that's your thing, fill your boots...
Genuine (ridiculous) example:
"In one of those twists which make life aspire to the condition of a novel
by Anthony Powell, Tanya would eventually become the sister-in-
law of Christina Hobhouse, who had befriended Aunt Elizabeth
at the mobile library in Llansteffan and who attended the recusant
mass in Dai Thomas's tin hut. Tanya would marry Henry Harrod,
a barrister in chambers with my old friend Mark Blackett-Ord.
Henry's brother, Christina's husband, was the economist Dominick
Harrod. They were related to Sir Johnston Forbes-Robertson, and
when I see that legendary actor's portrait hanging in Henry and
Tanyas house, I think of my aunt, in the Theatre Royal, Hanley,
revelling in his interpretations of Cassius, Shylock and Hamlet. "
If that's your thing, fill your boots...
April 27, 2025
The tone of this memoir is rueful. Wilson, prolific author, looks back at seventy to his childhood and youth. Married at twenty, father of two by twenty-four, he soon felt trapped. At thirty, after false starts of studying for the priesthood and a middling academic career, he has embarked on his life work as a writer.
My reaction to this book was mixed. Its episodic style was, at times, hard to follow. Wilson seems aware of this and admits, somewhat apologetically, “I could not write a continuous narrative framework of early childhood. It is, rather, a series of smudged, non-chronological impressions.”The writing style I admired in God’s Funeral is here, although at times it detours into a sentence so clause-laden that I missed the point. Nor did Wilson’s ample linguistic skill prevent him from failing to notice that the pleonastic phrase “aesthetic awareness” should have been recast.
A niggling point this last, I concede. More serious is that the narrative is cluttered with many names. If Wilson left out anyone active in the British literary scene in those years (and before), I didn’t notice. Add to that their intertwined relationships through descent and multiple marriages. Keeping them all straight would have required a spreadsheet.
Many chapters are very short, but the plot runs on in the following chapter (one even begins “So,”), causing me to wonder why there had been a break. At times, within chapters, one anecdote leads to another, then another, only to return jarringly to the original topic of the chapter. If he’d been recounting this in a pub (Wilson and everyone else in the book consume a lot of alcohol), he’d have thrown in a “Where was I?”
For all that, this book was an enjoyable read. The saga of the Wedgwood dynasty, so interwoven with the fate of Wilson’s family, the Oxford gossip, and the lifelong wrestling with faith all kept my interest. Of the latter, he writes: “During the dark phases of life when I have told myself that I have lost my faith . . . , what I have actually been suffering from is a failure of imagination.”
I was moved by Wilson’s account of the deep, life-long friendship with his first wife, an Oxford fellow several years his senior, continued throughout her decline into dementia.
I was struck by Wilson’s ambivalence about his writing. This is first explored in the Introduction and is a recurrent theme. His first dose of celebrity came at sixteen when an editorial in his school paper attracted the attention of one of the national dailies. This infected him with the “excitement of cheap journalism”; without this experience, he reflects, he “would probably have been a better person.” His stints on various editorial staffs and the stream of commissioned articles all paid the bills. Still, Wilson wonders what he might have achieved in his books without his career in literary journalism (with its associated social life — the hours at book launches with a glass of warm white wine in hand).
There were times I tired of the public self-flagellation, yet this also yields some of the most poignant passages, such as the one that describes the “many hours . . . spent sitting or kneeling at the back of churches, painfully aware that in this vale of soul-making, the addiction to writing more and more journalism, the marital failure and infidelities, the booze was destroying, not making a soul.”
Dante began his epic at the mid-point of life. Wilson ends this confession halfway to seventy, at thirty-five, a pilgrim at Tolstoy’s grave in Yasnaya Polyana. Not a life-changing experience, Wilson concedes, but one that stayed with him not only as he embarked on his Tolstoy biography but ever since with its reminder of “why reading and writing play such a vital part in our lives.”
My reaction to this book was mixed. Its episodic style was, at times, hard to follow. Wilson seems aware of this and admits, somewhat apologetically, “I could not write a continuous narrative framework of early childhood. It is, rather, a series of smudged, non-chronological impressions.”The writing style I admired in God’s Funeral is here, although at times it detours into a sentence so clause-laden that I missed the point. Nor did Wilson’s ample linguistic skill prevent him from failing to notice that the pleonastic phrase “aesthetic awareness” should have been recast.
A niggling point this last, I concede. More serious is that the narrative is cluttered with many names. If Wilson left out anyone active in the British literary scene in those years (and before), I didn’t notice. Add to that their intertwined relationships through descent and multiple marriages. Keeping them all straight would have required a spreadsheet.
Many chapters are very short, but the plot runs on in the following chapter (one even begins “So,”), causing me to wonder why there had been a break. At times, within chapters, one anecdote leads to another, then another, only to return jarringly to the original topic of the chapter. If he’d been recounting this in a pub (Wilson and everyone else in the book consume a lot of alcohol), he’d have thrown in a “Where was I?”
For all that, this book was an enjoyable read. The saga of the Wedgwood dynasty, so interwoven with the fate of Wilson’s family, the Oxford gossip, and the lifelong wrestling with faith all kept my interest. Of the latter, he writes: “During the dark phases of life when I have told myself that I have lost my faith . . . , what I have actually been suffering from is a failure of imagination.”
I was moved by Wilson’s account of the deep, life-long friendship with his first wife, an Oxford fellow several years his senior, continued throughout her decline into dementia.
I was struck by Wilson’s ambivalence about his writing. This is first explored in the Introduction and is a recurrent theme. His first dose of celebrity came at sixteen when an editorial in his school paper attracted the attention of one of the national dailies. This infected him with the “excitement of cheap journalism”; without this experience, he reflects, he “would probably have been a better person.” His stints on various editorial staffs and the stream of commissioned articles all paid the bills. Still, Wilson wonders what he might have achieved in his books without his career in literary journalism (with its associated social life — the hours at book launches with a glass of warm white wine in hand).
There were times I tired of the public self-flagellation, yet this also yields some of the most poignant passages, such as the one that describes the “many hours . . . spent sitting or kneeling at the back of churches, painfully aware that in this vale of soul-making, the addiction to writing more and more journalism, the marital failure and infidelities, the booze was destroying, not making a soul.”
Dante began his epic at the mid-point of life. Wilson ends this confession halfway to seventy, at thirty-five, a pilgrim at Tolstoy’s grave in Yasnaya Polyana. Not a life-changing experience, Wilson concedes, but one that stayed with him not only as he embarked on his Tolstoy biography but ever since with its reminder of “why reading and writing play such a vital part in our lives.”
June 19, 2025
This book was reviewed on the Literary Review and caught my attention. It is not so much an autobiography as a confession, although the harshest comments are reserved for people who are already dead. Wilson is of course a writer of considerable skill and style, and most anything that he has written is enjoyable. I did find that there were gaps in the book and the timeline went back and forth a little, perhaps appropriate to the confessional style. He does not miss out any names which he wishes to drop as acquaintances, drinking companions and friends, although he is generally discrete about mistresses.
He is very open about the sexual abuse at school, and I wondered whether this had some connection to the subsequent failure of his first marriage and his anorexia. He does not appear to be a great believer in therapy, which may have been the missing link for him to resolve the trauma. Instead, he turned to religion but seems to have run rather hot and cold, starting with almost signing up to become a priest on but then retreating into agnosticism.
I was delighted to find out that his daughter is Emily Wilson, now well-known as a translator of the Odyssey and the Iliad, and a favourite writer of mine. However while he did write about his extended family and his parents, his children only receive a passing mention.
I suspect that we have been told about three quarters of his life – the other quarter probably needs a biographer to add in the parts which it glosses over
He is very open about the sexual abuse at school, and I wondered whether this had some connection to the subsequent failure of his first marriage and his anorexia. He does not appear to be a great believer in therapy, which may have been the missing link for him to resolve the trauma. Instead, he turned to religion but seems to have run rather hot and cold, starting with almost signing up to become a priest on but then retreating into agnosticism.
I was delighted to find out that his daughter is Emily Wilson, now well-known as a translator of the Odyssey and the Iliad, and a favourite writer of mine. However while he did write about his extended family and his parents, his children only receive a passing mention.
I suspect that we have been told about three quarters of his life – the other quarter probably needs a biographer to add in the parts which it glosses over
February 8, 2023
I listened to this on Audible. I really liked the book, although it is probably not for everyone. A lot of the book (maybe too much) is about his childhood and family. His father was a managing director at Wedgwood, his mother was unhappily married. He had a horrific boarding school experience (but not as horrific as some of his classmates) with a sexually predatory and abusive headmaster and his wife, he went to Oxford, married a professor at age 20, went to seminary for a year, washed out in an academic career, when to London to engage in journalism, divorced wife, wrote novels and was named "Best of Young British Authors", but never lived up to his promise (at least compared with Martin Amis and Salman Rushdie). In between, there is a lot of religious discussion with is changes between C of E, Roman Catholicism, and Atheism.
October 14, 2022
I do like Wilson's writing, whether comment, novel or biography but despite the conversational style (do keep up) this was engaging - in patches. Wilson is quite candid when speaking about himself, and those bits I did enjoy, particularly concerning his faith and his writing. However, lengthy background stories of others were sometimes dull, but nevertheless, these are trotted out for you (a bit like Norman really) whether you're interested or not! To sum up, confessions, yes- but not much penitence.
May 14, 2023
Great Insights from a Fallible Man
My knowledge of AN Wilson was all but zero before reading this compelling autobiography.
Somewhere in the mists of memory, I recalled he had been fired from the Spectator.
Then, when I saw the subtext lines ‘A Life of Failed Promises’, I thought, well, that’ll do me.
So glad I read this; it satisfied a need I didn’t realise existed and although I didn’t know a single character mentioned, I have met all their doppelgängers in my own life.
Thoroughly enjoyable.
My knowledge of AN Wilson was all but zero before reading this compelling autobiography.
Somewhere in the mists of memory, I recalled he had been fired from the Spectator.
Then, when I saw the subtext lines ‘A Life of Failed Promises’, I thought, well, that’ll do me.
So glad I read this; it satisfied a need I didn’t realise existed and although I didn’t know a single character mentioned, I have met all their doppelgängers in my own life.
Thoroughly enjoyable.
June 19, 2025
A good listen however its one of those audiobooks where I suspect the written page has more power and impact. Sometimes words shout off the page in anger or barely whisper in horror: the modulated tones of AN were not going to match his pen power.
I listened as a prelude to digging into his biographies and this indeed was enlightening and interesting. A particular kind of upbringing and life from a particular time in England- grim and privileged in equal parts. As he grows older it is his increasing self reflection on faith and friendship that really stand out.
I listened as a prelude to digging into his biographies and this indeed was enlightening and interesting. A particular kind of upbringing and life from a particular time in England- grim and privileged in equal parts. As he grows older it is his increasing self reflection on faith and friendship that really stand out.
October 18, 2022
Beautifully written and illuminating in parts. This was a slightly bitty book with much name dropping and perhaps with the author holding back at times - but that of course is his prerogative.
I was fascinated and riveted by the account of his childhood and schooling but there were longeurs and at time this was not an easy read but it was a book well worth persevering with.
I was fascinated and riveted by the account of his childhood and schooling but there were longeurs and at time this was not an easy read but it was a book well worth persevering with.
November 12, 2022
Thank you for the advanced copy
As expected this is really well written, infact it's beautifully written, well put together but at some stages I honestly lost my way and found it a little muddled, it is not overall not an easy read but I persevered and I am glad I did. Some really fascinating aspects. The index is very long!
As expected this is really well written, infact it's beautifully written, well put together but at some stages I honestly lost my way and found it a little muddled, it is not overall not an easy read but I persevered and I am glad I did. Some really fascinating aspects. The index is very long!
December 2, 2022
I am not the target audience, I fear. Enjoyed parts; bored to tears in parts; found no overarching theme except, possibly, self-flagellation. Many of the names dropped meant little to me (target audience); many seemed dropped as self-inflation because the vignettes had no point I could discern. Amusingly written and abruptly ended.
October 13, 2022
Correctives for Agnostics
Our top prose stylist provides plenty of resins to doubt agnosticism, and shines a light on his faith and everyone else’s too.
I loved its characteristic erudition, and gossipy style. Jeez, this man knows everybody!
Our top prose stylist provides plenty of resins to doubt agnosticism, and shines a light on his faith and everyone else’s too.
I loved its characteristic erudition, and gossipy style. Jeez, this man knows everybody!
December 17, 2023
A very wise, honest, enjoyable and beautifully written account of one human being’s journey through life. Full of wisdom and compassion and I recommend it highly. It may not suit readers who are not interested in the British history and literary milieu.
July 23, 2025
There are some interesting passages in amongst these memoirs, but overall the contents belie the title ... far from considering himself to have led a life of failed promises, it is apparent that the author thinks extremely highly of himself.
September 24, 2022
Excellent. And very interesting.
August 31, 2023
Wo;spm jas published 50 books I have now read 32 of them. This autobio fits the pieces togther he aludes to in his fiction
June 27, 2025
I thoroughly enjoyed this book!
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