A bit of an exhausting read, perhaps cause most of it was so recognizably alcoholic but his relentless denial of it being so made my heart break. He almost gets there in the end; never quite does. The third to last chapter, or whichever one it was, where he's off on a tirade against the "White Logic" and the pseudo-memoir narrative of the story dissolves into a dissertation on metaphysics. Some of the most gorgeous writing I've read in a long time (that chapter), the rest– I could take it or leave it. Personally enjoyed Call of the Wild much more, call me cliche.