It's not often that, having finished a book, in a state of awed excitement you turn back to the beginning and start all over again. I have a sense that this extraordinary and uncategorisable little masterpiece is undergoing a phase of neglect. Fourteen years on from its author's death, it's time it was revisited and re-evaluated. It's one of the masterworks of miscellaneous prose-writing from the late twentieth century, genre-transcending, exquisitely written, combative, inexhaustible, candid, sensuous and infinitely wise. Written by a passionate feminist and philosopher and circling round those twin polarities of love and death, its 144 all-too-brief pages have as much gravity and interest as any autobiography I've ever read. The author's character is captivating, her humanity wickedly observant, funny, embracing. It sends you scuttling for the dictionary here and there, and there are sentences the meaning of which you have to ponder for as long as it takes; but what of that when the end-result is a deepening of our sense of the human condition, a gift of the possibilities of connection? Compare this book with another acclaimed addition to the modern death-memoir genre - Joan Didion's "Year of Magical Thinking" - and the transcendent. mischievous quality of Gillian Rose's mind is made plain. The one, for all the touching nature of its material, is showy, exhibitionist, name-dropping, shallow, and irritating too in its stylistic tics. The other is profoundly cultured, meditative, brave - it's as good a book as I've read in years, and I cannot recommend it too highly. Five stars, considering some of the volumes that gain this plaudit, is not enough. Just say that it's a modern classic, read it again and again, and mourn the fact that there's no more to come from its author's magical quality of mind.