Francoise Hardy, Velvet Underground, Simon Smith and his Amazing Dancing Bear; Frithjof Schuon, Christmas Humphreys, Ouspensky; The Meaning of Life, talking all night, hitch-hiking; Better Books, S.O.A.S, Notting Hill Project; Aleister Crowley, Louis Massignon (but oddly, not Henri Corbin), Shaikh al-Alawi; LSD, speed, strange tobacco. In fact, I didn't buy this because of the 60's nostalgia (I have my own, and don't normally need anyone else's), but because I have liked all of Robert Irwin's books, and like the way he writes, and here his down to earth humour and not infrequent wisdom (of which there are some very nice touches near the end) is given ample scope. But once into the book, almost every reference (except Sufi monastic life and black magic, not my things) had a resonance for me. In short, an autobiography that reads like a cracking good novel. But it is a life, a variety of which we all, of that generation, have, and this is a rather a wonderful one. And, when it's beginning to close, and we have long since "fallen to earth", something of all of that, as in Irwin's case, remains.