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Title: shallow, lazy and narcissistic memoir
Review: From Woolf to Dickens and Carlyle to a wonderful essay on Little Black Sambo's author to Josephine Baker, Phylis Rose's objects of consideration have always been profoundly significant. We used to read her books because they told us about the world. But now we learn only about Phyllis Rose's world, and it isn't the least bit appealing, or interesting or even revelatory. Rose has lost her way completely. Her early books expressed a kind of insight, albeit in a perpetually arrogant and smug tone, that is completely absent from this book. An author in search of a subject. Perhaps this is her last book.
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