I've not read another book as lovely as this one in a long time! The estimable daughter of Robert Graves creates in beautiful prose an estimable voice of her own, while wearing warm and honorable traces of her father's literary genius; there's a common clarity, and distinction in the language. There's remarkable writing on every page; the ever so gradual reaching deep into the heart of Franco almost by not mentioning him, the destruction of her Spain from within, the passion of her love for her Catalan self, among her many selves- it's a thoroughly important book in every way. The first and last sections work like bookends and are epsecially right; Graves' subtle reflections on her relationship with her mother. This is English prose of the first order. Of course, one has a natural penchant to want to find wonderful amber things in her writing, given one's regard for the work of her father; the interesting thing is that her own voice presents itself right off, so much so that one ends praising even more the virtue of the inheritance, rather than getting lost in the echos. Her reflections on the work of a translator are beautifully woven throughout the book, and reveal a meticulous care for the possibilities of language. The ways in which she chooses to speak of her father in this memoir are memorable; at the oddest, least unexpected moment the narrative will turn and there is Robert Graves, father. This really is an irrepleaceable work of art. I commend it to everyone to read, there is something for every reader in these slender pages, and that surely expresses the consummate perfection of its parts.