[This is my third time through. I wanted to reread it while reading his selected poems. Not only does it cast light on those poems, it still seems as good as it did on a first or second reading.]
I think this is the best autobiography/memoire i've read since Louis MacNeice's 'The Strings are False'. Logue will be remembered for 'War Music" his 'account' of the Iliad, arguably one of the great long poems of the twentieth century. But there's not a great deal about that in this book.
The title is ironic. Logue takes the English Idea of self-deprecation several steps further than usual. At times he seems to be going out of his way to prove what an unlikeable person he was, allowing people he knew to have their say about how he let them down or alienated them, but rather than the usual fake 'oh what a naughty chappy I was', the portrait that emerges is fascinating.
It's not just his story either but the story of the time he was living in with a cast of impressive characters. And he writes beautifully:
'For Inspiration I read Eliot. For Instruction Pound. Yeats for pleasure. Matters became clear. Either you did as well, as differently, as Eliot had done, or forget it. Become a film star, or a world leader'.
That last non sentence packs a world of attitude into what sounds like a throw away line.
Above all this is a book about books, about reading discussing and writing them, about the business of dealing with publishers and editors.
'And of course, we loved books. Books were the thing. Portable durable inexpensive-a marvel of technolgoy needing no intermediates save spectacles ; that can be exceptionally beautiful and may become valuable. Above all-free spirited, subversive, difficult to police'.