An interesting exercise, this book. Boyd has imagined up the centre of his fictional autobiographical book from found images and snatches of other people's memories over the years, and for the most part it does the trick.

Like any life, it is somewhat uneven in its ability to draw you in. I found my interest waning through the more domesticated of Amory Clay's years, only for it to pick back up again once the immensely flawed husband is dispatched.

I liked it, but it did drag in parts.