I wish I had never picked up this book, it may have ruined the Marx Brothers movies for me now. Very disappointed to learn what a misogynist Groucho was - it is okay to joke about women but why do the homeliest men think they deserve the most beautiful women? Not only does he want them beautiful but he wants them dumb. I am both depressed and disgusted. ( )

One of the great ponderables of history is how Groucho Marx's humour would have fared in the current day, away from the stricter censorship of his heyday. "Memoirs of a mangy lover" was written during Goucho's heyday, and while there are some funny lines and innuendo, you can't help but feel that an unleashed Groucho, unfettered by the social mores of his times, would have produced a far, far funnier book.

There are some moments that stand out but so much of the book are nondescript stories that wouldn't stand out at all if it was John Q. Smith rather than Groucho Marx telling them. ( )

I'm giving this a slightly low rating simply because I had expected to like it much, much more than I did. I stuck with it about halfway, which is more than I'd give most books that didn't grab me. On display is Groucho's trademark style of wit, and while I am a big fan of it in general, it tends to wear on you when stretched out over the length of a book. There are still gags that work well, despite the years since the book was published, but of course there are also phrases that haven't weathered the changes in pop culture, and those often fall flat or, I expect, even went by me without my noticing. I did enjoy a few flourishes of slightly bluer humor than Groucho got away with in his movies and on the radio. These were great to find, but overall I felt like I was forcing my way through the book without real relish. (Insert Groucho-esque rejoinder here.) I plan to pick up his other books, becasue I think in the end the biggest drawback I found in this volume was that it was style in search of some substance. The telling was enjoyable, but what was being told was so slight that it didn't hold together. Hopefully his letters and autobiography have more meat in them. (Again, if you're interested, these straight lines are simply littering the place here.) ( )

I love the Marx Brothers' movies; I'm less enthralled with Groucho's solo appearances. The balance is off; the flavor of the complete stew is missing. I got the same impression reading this book of short humorous pieces, as told by Groucho, mostly about his exploits with the opposite sex. That's not to say these aren't funny. Groucho's persona here is the same as in the boys' movies, and I can picture him doing the bits on screen. But it's just not the same without Chico and Harpo and yes, even Zeppo -- although there are one or two pieces here where Chico and Harpo put in an appearance. It did put me in the mood to watch "Duck Soup" again. ( )

Although there were a few laughs to be found, Groucho's personality just doesn't shine through on the printed page - without the ironic, self-effacing delivery he was so good at, most of this falls flat.

It was undoubtably written in a hurry and has a completely manic feel that overpowers the wit. It feels like I expected Steve Martin's novels to be like before I read them - a slalom of pun, dated jokes and double entendres you can read at breakneck speed.

I adore Groucho, but I think his stage presence was just too important to his humor for him to successfully write a book of this type.

One section I found interesting was the way he trapped a spiritualist into betraying herself... if the whole book would have been in this vein, it would have been much more satisfying. ( )