I love most of Mary McCarthy, but in my opinion, this is her weakest book. It covers basically the same territory as Memories of a Catholic Girlhood, which she wrote in the 1950s. Here, however, there's little trace of her signature, tightly-wrought style. Instead, the style is baggy, with convoluted sentences, chatty asides, digressions within digressions, and endless lists of books she read, names of friends, etc. As a result, I often lost track of the basic story - which, after all, was the exact same story she had already told in Memories of a Catholic Girlhood. I'm rather confused as to why McCarthy wrote this book at all. Given that she had already written a detailed memoir of her formative years, why not just skip ahead to the mid-1930s, the subject of her unfinished "Intellectual Memoirs"?