In Mark Shipper’s classic satirical Beatles novel “Paperback Writer,” Donovan is introduced as a spacey, easily annoyed prig who totes around bananas as his choice of drug. Upon meeting the singer in India, the Beatles call him “Don,” which makes Donovan extremely irritated.

“Don’t call me ‘Don,’ ” he tells the foursome, with increasing exasperation.

“Snotty little bugger, isn’t he?” Ringo says at one point.

Yes, Ringo, he is.

I should have given up on “The Autobiography of Donovan: The Hurdy Gurdy Man” after the first 20 pages. Immediately you could tell that the Scottish folksinger has a high opinion of himself – quoting his songs and his “poetry,” telling you about the early days of his life as if he were the most important person in the world.

Keep going, I had to tell myself. Sooner or later he’s got to get to his meeting with Bob Dylan, or talk about producer Mickie Most, or describe the trip to India with the Beatles.

He does all those things, but it takes forever to get there. Much to my chagrin, I actually had to finish the book to learn about those details – which meant I had to wade through his self-regard for the lyrics to “Sunshine Superman” or how he says he invented “Celtic Rock.” (If there is such a thing, I’ll give credit to Van Morrison – or the Clancy Brothers.) I don’t recall the last time I felt cheated by finishing a book.

Listen: I actually like some of Donovan’s music. “Season of the Witch” is excellent – cuttingly laconic, in its drama an exception to his often drifty songs. “Hurdy Gurdy Man” is a fine taste of psychedelia, with credit due to producer Most and guitarist Jimmy Page. I even have a soft spot for “Atlantis,” despite the ponderous opening (“and other so-called gods of our legends / though gods they wehe-re,” he says in his brogue), because the “Way down below the ocean” part kicks ass.

But let’s not fool ourselves. On a list of ‘60s hitmakers, the guy belongs somewhere between Blood, Sweat & Tears and Gary Puckett and the Union Gap. In his autobiography, he’s constantly bragging about his chart success, but his only U.S. Top 10 album was his greatest hits LP, and just four of his singles made that zone. (He did have eight Top 10 singles in the UK, but so did Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick and Tich.)

What you want is the stories. He was friendly with the Beatles, after all, and surviving the British Invasion and psychedelia could make for entertaining anecdotes. Instead too many of the stories involve his pursuit of his true love, Brian Jones’ former girlfriend Linda Lawrence (credit where it’s due: they’re still married after almost 50 years), and how often he partook of the herb. His descriptions of his contemporaries are as shallow as his own self-reckoning. George Harrison is a loyal friend; Mickie Most is a conduit for Donovan’s own clever ideas and musical awesomeness. Upon finishing the album “Sunshine Superman,” he writes, “I felt the spirit move within me. I knew that the album I was recording was my masterpiece.”

It’s a very frustrating book.

In real life, he doesn’t mind being called “Don.” (Hell, he’s even kind to “Bobbie” Dylan, who mocked him – and everybody else – in “Dont Look Back.”) But his autobiography is missing the kind of self-deprecating humor that carried, say, Rod Stewart’s memoir. Even Graham Nash, who also has an ego, told some rich, charming tales of his youth with the Hollies’ Allan Clarke in his book “Wild Tales.” For such a lover of the mystical, Donovan has little of that sense of “How did I get here?”

Better to stick with the singles. “The Hurdy Gurdy Man” is a long way to go for a few worthwhile stories.