I wanted to like this book, bought for me by a well-meaning relative. Woolf seems to have been a decent enough bloke. And the law's my subject. I'm a judge, believe it or not. I was even willing to overlook the hopelessly hackneyed title ("The Pursuit of Justice", indeed.) But bloody hell, there's no way around it -- this is worse than atrocious.
It is without exception the most boring book I've ever read. And I've read a lot. Probably more than most people, anyway. Even just twenty-odd books a year for fifty-odd years would be a thousand. And of all those, this was number one for sheer tedium. A collection of poorly-written essays, with no discernable connection or theme, mostly on trivial or obscure topics and many already so outdated as to be worthless.
It's hard to avoid the conclusion that Woolf gave a pile of his old speeches and articles to his ghost-writer, Campbell-Holt, and told him to throw a book together, to supplement his pension.