Could have been good. Perhaps it was.

[threemonkeys]

The fourth volume of Clive James' "unreliable memoirs" is North Face of Soho. Like the others it is told in a self deprecating style that James insists is how he really feels. The problem is with this volume there is less to be self deprecating about. It covers the time in his life when he really established himself as a critic and author. The hits in life outnumber the misses. Modesty seems a bit inappropriate. But it is full of trademark James double-jointed witticisms. It also has the cast of colourful characters who all seem to help the author in spite of his professed incompetence. I suspect that the characters this time are a little less unreliable than in previous volumes.

I'm reluctant to be negative about something which gave me such amusement, but it did feel a bit formula. A bit less fresh than the earlier volumes, perhaps for the "success" reasons above or perhaps because of a layer of melancholy that seemed to settle over parts of the book. The real pain of live overwhelming the false pain of life remembered. Did you like that last line - North Face of Soho is full of the like.