I can not believe that I hadn't read this until now. It has been sitting on my shelf for a couple of years, sandwiched between some of Buk's poetry, and I had a vague feeling that it was some slight novelty item chucked out posthumously and liable to set my teeth on edge. What it is in reality is the diary captured thoughts of an aging writer who can't stop noticing the vacuity and worthlessness of the lives lived around him. Regardless of the passing of time his eye is as keen as ever, regardless of his need for a cataract operation, and his rage is as pure as ever, even with the compensation of enough money for the first time in his life. As beautifully honest and simple as anything he ever wrote, a fitting coda for my favourite writer and poet.
Also, Robert Crumb's illustrations seem to grow organically from the page, a perfect marriage with the words. ( )