Feels oddly seized with touchiness and frosted over with regret. A theatre director once said to Hopkins, 'You just have a head full of Welsh saboteurs,' and they are still at work, plotting against him, to judge by the texture of this memoir. Much of it unfolds in choppy, stop-start rhythms ... His memoir is a patchy affair, to be honest, which omits entire swaths of his achievement, yet its wayward momentum exerts a certain charm, as if Hopkins were only just in control of his reminiscences.
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