If your idea of a writer's biography is one that skimps over the writing, then this is your kind of book. It quotes almost nothing from Trollope's extensive writings (not even her letters--and she belonged to an age, mind you, when people revealed themselves in letters). Its three-sentence plot summaries of her numerous novels are as pointless as they are boring to read (you get more juicy details, and better writing, from the backs of any modern-day paperbacks). In fact, one feels, after reading this book, that its author wouldn't have cared if her subject had been a seamstress or a milliner instead; she would've managed to slog through nearly 400 pages of text anyway talking about everything else except those things that defined her subject.