This was a tough read. Not tough because of long meandering sentences ala Henry James, but tough because of long descriptive passages that elicit nearly no interest in this reader. I assume that at the time of its publication this book was valued for its vicious criticism of the hypocrisy of various (fictional) members of the British communists and somewhat less pointed criticism of British capitalists, and men (and women) in general. There are also criticisms of Cold War militarism and racist colonialism. All of these are more dated than informative. Somewhat like reading a LIFE magazine from 1944--it does not give you any new information, but it is useful as a window onto the popular outlooks of the time. For the most part, reading this book was like reading diary entries by an unhappy writer who complains about the persons she interacts with in a prose that is barely leavened with any kind of wit or linguistic pyrotechnics, and which is fairly banal, though meticulous, in its observations. I did greatly enjoy, however, the description of the fictional author's interactions with the British movie and television producers and the American theater producer. Her send up of these folks' trivial understanding of her fictional work was very funny and insightful. I also enjoyed the pastiche of newspaper headlines from the ramping up on the Cold War in the 1950s, it being particularly painful to read here at the far end of that paranoid era, when we live with different newer (older) paranoia but are still living with the Cold War fears as well.